Heritage
by L-pandora
Summary: Three families have enough skeletons in their closets to fill a cemetery. A tale of Durless, Middleford, and Phantomhive. How deep will blood run before it runs dry? Eventual Sebciel. Long WIP.
1. Prologue

**Heritage**

_i. the eyes of survivors_

* * *

_1875, 21st of December_

Beneath a roof wearing away with time, under the glow of a gas lamp, a tired Angelina Durless hid behind a mountain of medical texts that had accumulated in seven nights. Presently, she was not a coquette of high society; her skin was tender where rouge had smeared from careless scrubbing and rough where she had found less time to attend. Pursing her dry lips, she leaned further into the small print, for there was something to be said about greater clarity in a closer look.

Soon, her will began to shudder, scattering into December's frosted air. She shut the book, cupped her eyes, and flinched at the chill of her fingers. Seven nights had passed since that day. Perhaps it was time to accept her nephew's birth, for he brought out a strange new tenderness in that man's eyes. It was a look lovelier than any he had shown to her sister, but the sourness in her stomach churned the small victory into a jealous poison that crept to her fingertips.

What right had that child to her sister _and _that man? What right had he to share their love? Their beauty? Their happiness?

Fueled by green flames, her hands slithered towards a book of incurable illnesses. Three soft knocks caught her in her tracks. "…Come in," she answered, shoving her hands under the table, away from the book's binding. The door swung open to a severe frown.

"Oh, good evening, mother," she relaxed her shoulders. The relief numbed the hurricane tossing in her abdomen.

"My goodness," the matron clucked, eyeing the jumble of texts. "You really must do something about that mess, Angelina. If, by chance, an _eligible_ guest stumbles across this study, what would become of your _reputation_? Surely you understand that this," she gestured rather generally about the room, "is _most_ unbecoming of a lady. And how long have you been up reading tonight? You will ruin your lovely complexion. Really, I have no idea what has possessed you since your nephew's birth, but you should understand—"

"Nothing's wrong with me, mother. And I've been up here since the party ended." Angelina rolled her eyes at the 'I _knew_ it'. "Really, mother, there's nothing to worry about. It's enough to look presentable in the presence of company, and there's nothing scandalous enough in here to do lasting damage."

"Except _you_," her mother muttered. "Alright, alright, I suppose I can let you go for now…but only because you are far too tired to absorb anything _I _say. And do get yourself cleaned up. Whatever fondness you possess for your cosmetics, sleeping in powder and rouge is never wise. "

Angelina rubbed her cheek and smiled. Standing, she peeked at the book, expecting a menacing gleam in return. It remained lifeless, while vestiges of green flames settled in her depths, in wait of another time. Dismissing her mother's clucking about posture, she stretched her back and sauntered out of the room. If she had looked back, she would have seen the lady hover over the table with an arm raised to sweep the books onto the ground.

But the arm paused. Dropped. Throwing one last sigh at the collection, the lady left.

xxxxxxx

_1878, 18th of October_

Angelina Durless stood before a door, head bowed, hand wavering between forming a fist and lying limp by her side. There was no sign of life from the other side. Once or twice the wind whistling outdoors disturbed the silence, but her thoughts did not budge from her dilemma. After some moments of raising and lowering knuckles, she decided to delay her entrance, pressing an ear to the crevice in hopes of catching a stray cough.

The reassurance never did come. Mustering up her resolve, she checked her posture, patted her skirt, and rapped the door slowly, hesitating a second after the first knock. For a moment, the corridor was silent.

"…Come in," a voice croaked from the other side of the door. Angelina swallowed, placed a firm hand on the knob, and turned.

"Oh, Ann. Come in. Shut the door behind you."

"Hello, mother," she greeted the darkness. "I…I've been talking. To the doctors."

"Ah, the doctors. Of_ course_." The words, polished with resent, were sharp. "Outrageous things, doctors. They only know how to lie. Saying all that…rubbish…" A cough erupted from her chest and resonated through the room. Within seconds, it multiplied into a hacking fit.

"Mother!" Angelina cried, running to bedside. A bump against furniture reminded her of the lamp and water jug before her. Deciding that adequate lighting was needed, she clambered for the fixture, but was halted by the source of her concern.

"Stop!" The matron ordered. She had regained control of her vocal cords, and the power that came with her voice stopped her daughter in her tracks. "I'm alright. And for heaven's sake, don't listen to those doctors. I still have a few decades left in me, you know! You really must get away from those _people_ …"

"No, mother," Angelina cleared her throat and clasped her hands behind her back. She could make out the thin form lying on the bed, frail yet commanding. "I…Today, I have come to discuss an…important issue. I wish…I wish to obtain a doctor's license, mother. To become a doc—"

"No!" the matron's cry was so fierce that her daughter recoiled with her hands before her. "_Absolutely_ out of…the…"—cough—"…question! How many times must I make this clear, Angelina? You _cannot_ …" Once again, she lapsed into a fit, her coughs shaking the bed with their ferocity. Angelina immediately clutched her mother's shoulders, but her hands were shoved away as soon as they made contact. "NO! No, no…say no more. Please. I beg you. Now is no time for silly dreams, Angelina, never…"

A chill shot through Angelina's spine. Silly dreams? There was nothing silly about becoming a doctor. Nor was it just a dream! It was the only constant in her life, the last thing that was hers and hers _alone—_

"_Ann is so lovely, and you're smart. So you should have more confidence in yourself!"_

Her sister—

"_Ann's red hair is really beautiful, just like the colour of red spider lilies in their full bloom. Red really suits you. You should have more confidence in yourself."_

That man—

"_Ah, you're here! Ann, I have some good news to tell you."_

Her sister and that man—

"_His nose is just like 'that man's'."_

Their _son_—

"NO!" Angelina cried, a chilly flame rising from her depths. Her breathing was ragged. Her palms were damp on her face. Her powder was smudging. Sweat. She could not bring herself to remove her hands.

All those dreams had been robbed from her. Surely it was fair to keep just this one?

Just this once?

"_Mother_—"

"…Get out." Her mother hissed. A trembling finger rose. "GET OUT!"

It was hopeless, Angelina realized. She bit her lip to suppress the words clawing at her throat. Stepping back, she found that walking away was not so painful, and strode across the room. But before she left, she turned. The light from the corridor grazed her mother's bony limbs, drooping lines and pale skin. There was blood on her papery lips and tears _(dust)_ in her eyes. Her hair, once a brilliant shade of amber, was a grey that blended in the shadows.

Eyes traveling to the water jug, Angelina opened her mouth, but the finality of the raised finger forced her to turn away.

The door snapped shut.

Silence. The lady lowered her arm and returned to her pillow. "I have always made the right choices," she whispered, her eyes and lips glazed with wetness. "So where did I go wrong with her…?"

"It is not entirely your fault, you know."

"Oh! Goodness." She blinked away her tears and looked to the curtains. "I hadn't known—When on earth did you come in? And why, for that matter, are you here? Don't you have clients to attend to?"

"Well," the voice ruminated. "I had wanted to visit my ill wife, but found her asleep, so I remained until she awoke. I am worried for your health, you know."

The lady's sigh rang through the room. Gathering her strength, she pushed herself upright. "Could you pour me a glass of water, dear? It's…"—cough—"…too much trouble to ring for Margaret."

"Oh, of course." There was a rustle of fabric, and the curtains parted to reveal a portly red-haired man in his morning dress. He shifted the curtains to allow brightness into the room. Lady Durless averted her eyes, the sunlight provoking further tears. When she was suitably adjusted to the glare, a glass of water had been poured, waiting by her side.

"Thank you, my lord."

"You're welcome," he replied, twiddling his thumbs. "Unusually bright day out…"

She tipped the last drops of water into her mouth and returned the glass to her bedside. "So, when are you returning to your business? I hardly expect you to idle around all day."

The earl slowly looked up from his fingers. His gaze faltered under her curious eyes.

"Ah, yes, about that," he cleared his throat, and fixed his eyes upon a wall. "There is a matter I must discuss with you. A very pressing matter."

The chill of Déjà vu trickled down her spine. "Surely nothing so pressing that you must consult with me first?"

Lord Durless looked around for a chair. Spotting one, he pulled it to the bedside and sat, so that his eyes were level with hers. He gazed at her with furrowed brows and thin lips, as if to convey the graveness of the matter, but his fidgeting fingers betrayed his anxiety.

"What is it?" Lady Durless whispered, gripping her covers tightly. An urge to release the pressure in her chest clawed at her, but she shoved it away.

"It," he whispered, "is Phantomhive. We are close to a compromise. Very close. All he needs is your word of silence."

There was a silence.

"No." Her eyes darted left and right as she came to terms with the resurfacing nightmare. "No. No!" She leaned toward the man and clutched his shoulders. "_Malcolm! _Surely you have considered—you cannot have—_you mustn't carry out the deed!_"

He gazed at her.

"Malcolm! Listen to me!" She shrieked through her teeth. "_What_ has possessed you? Why have…how…when did you begin to entertain that vile man's—"

_He already has them, what more does he want to take—_

"The earl has been kind enough to grant us three days' grace," he looked away. "You may give me your final answer then. Of course, I hope to return to him with a satisfactory response, so do consider your choice carefully." He stood up and headed for the door, but his footsteps were slow and deliberate, waiting for her intervention.

"_My_ choice is irrelevant when you are not leaving me one to begin with," the lady hissed. "And you! I have no words left for you. He is your brother_, _Malcolm! _Another _one of your flesh and blood! Why_—_" No. "Just _what _are you selling him for?"

His chin jerked in her direction, but his eyes, now narrowed, remained on the door. "And I suppose it has never occurred to you that our _bond _may be why I have made this choice? Why I _can_ make this choice?"

"What—"

"Do you sympathize with him?" More than you sympathize with me?

Her lips parted to silence.

Now brisk and short, his footsteps resumed. "I must attend to my clients now." There was a click of a pocket watch. Malcolm Durless shuffled his waistcoat and tugged at his coat before resting a hand on the doorknob. "I await your answer in three days."

Halfway to the corridor he was caught in his tracks. "But it is so unfair," her voice cracked. "To his wife. His son_. _It is so unfair to take him from them." You selfish man.

"And it is fair to have you taken away from me?" His chest pinched. "No, _don't you dare protest._ Angelina has not been the only one talking to the doctors, you know. There…" he twitched his nose to suppress the burn, "…there is no way. No time. Please. Before we part…" he took a deep breath, "…Grant me this last favour. Goodbye."

The door shut.

Lady Durless stared after his shadow. Weighed down by defeat, regret, and pity, the scream climbed no further than her throat. And as sudden and turbulent as the whirlpool of emotions rising from her abdomen, a cough tore past her lips. It was followed with so many more of its kind that between them and the coppery substance that drowned her tongue, she fell prey to unconsciousness.

* * *

_3 days later; 1878, 21st of October_

"I'm sorry," the doctor bowed his condolences.

The lord refused to blink, but allowed his eyes to fasten upon the spectacle. Her skin, like a freshly withered rose, was stained with patches of scarlet that bled into brown. Her eyes stared straight forward, unyielding to the living. Upon her sheets lay a wrinkled piece of parchment and a red-tipped quill. Ignoring the chill that coiled around his spine, Malcolm Durless plucked it from his lady's side and smoothed it with trembling hands.

The sole writing on the page was a barely legible 'N', decorated with splotches the colour of dead leaves.

His breath stopped.

"My lord?" The doctor offered a sterile hand.

Malcolm Durless breathed in deeply. He folded the parchment with furtive haste and slid it into a pocket. With the feeling of being watched lingering over his head, he forced himself to step away from the body's eerie—the body.

_She's gone,_ he told himself, repeating it like a mantra, but the feeling remained.

"My lord?" The doctor repeated. "Shall…shall I take the body away?"

"Hm?" He jerked his head. "Ah…ah, yes. Please. Just…do it." The feeling curled around his arms, his torso and his legs, rooting him to the spot. Then the reality of her departure set in, and the dam between his eyes collapsed from a sudden jolt of pressure.

"Yes, my lord."

_She's gone._

* * *

_1878, 22nd October_

"Is that your final answer?"

"Yes, father. I will obtain my doctor's license. I," a trembling pause, "…I must."

"You insolent child," Lord Durless hissed. His face was as red as his hair, but his eyes were averted so they could not betray why. "Do you…do you have any idea how _ashamed_ your mother would be? How _disappointed?_"

Angelina squeezed her fingers into sweaty fists. "It will not be the first time."

"You—!"

"She's gone, father," she whispered. She lifted her eyes from the floor, but found that the soreness within her nose only increased the further and higher she saw. "She…I…S-she…I…I cannot be held back any longer!"

_When there is nothing truly in my way._

Her voice broke.

"SILENCE!" The lord roared. His heart hammered against a chilly cage, gripped by a familiar rush of turmoil. White. When he caught his breath, his eyes fell shut. Red. "Alright, then! Get out." Hand. "Get _out_." _Judgment._ "You are no LONGER MY DAUGHTER!"

Angelina breathed sharply. Her gaze dropped to the floor, paused, and traveled back up, never quite meeting the other's eyes. The will in her eyes did not waver after his proclamation, but her lips, once anxiously taut, were now loose with inevitability.

"Well?" The lord rumbled. "What are you waiting for?"

Gazing at his raised finger, Angelina wondered if there would ever be a place where she was truly wanted, and disappeared in a rustle of her mourning dress.

Lord Durless listened to the silence. His fury began to chill. After the moment passed, he sat, the sore pressure of dread climbing his veins. He sighed with closed eyes, and procured a pen and scrap of parchment.

'_My Lord Phantomhive,' _he began, ink spilling over the last alphabet,

'_I regret to have delayed our correspondence; circumstances beyond my domain have held me from swift reply. Your kind patience has been welcome. I inform you with a weary heart the passing of my lady, whom you had sought to convince of our views._

_The loss, you understand, has left those in my environment in a state unfit to carry out the activities we negotiated beforehand. The matter of funeral arrangements too weighs upon me. I thus request a brief postponement…'_

* * *

_1881, December 27th_

There were shadows of firelight in Lord Phantomhive's eyes as he slid into the armchair, one long leg upon the other, leather tips pointing at the balding man before him. Lord Durless carried neither the imperial air nor the rich belly of three years ago. His weary eyes had changed little, though they now held a blankness that hid all promise and lie.

"Now that our pleasantries are done with," Vincent Phantomhive let his words dangle, raising two encouraging eyebrows.

Malcolm Durless dragged his head up a beat too late. "…What business has brought you to this decrepit old man?" He said, looking to the hearth.

"Come, now!" Vincent laughed. "It has been three years, dear father. Your reprieve has been spent. _Long—_spent." Pushing off his armchair, he sauntered towards the other man. "Sometimes I do wonder when your will began to waver. Do you remember," he hovered behind him, voice light, "how your lady, dear mother, used to comment on our _unfaltering determination_? Oh, what a charming woman she was, and most _shrewd_, too. But I wonder, now—"

"She was lovely."

"Yes. It is a shame Ciel will never get to know the _charming_ woman his grandmother was," Vincent shook his head, smiling. "After all, she _is_—"

"_Just tell me what you want."_

He let a smile flit by his lips. "Must you really ask?"

There was a silence broken on occasion by the crackle of firewood. Under the pressure of memory and the present, Malcolm Durless felt three long years of avoidance crumble into infertile dust, and his mouth began to shape the words his heart could not say.

"Do it. Tonight."

"Of course." There was a snap of a pocket watch as arrangements began to form in Vincent's mind. "You will be informed when the transactions occur. Now, if you don't mind," gesturing at the time, he smiled apologetically, and turned on his heel, eyes trained on the door.

"…Tell Ciel I wish him a happy birthday."

Vincent stopped at his son's name, but soon resumed a pace and a smile he threw behind. "I will not fail you."

* * *

"Father! Father!" Little Astor Durless stumbled onto the rug, polished blade in hand. "You won't believe what Harold just taught me! Come, look! Look!"

"Quiet," Stephen Durless scrutinized his documents. "Lau from the Chinese Foreign Trade…paperwork in order, as usual." Without looking up, he reached for his stamp, but grasped air instead. A prod to his side drew his eyes to a blond boy, who was examining the ink-drenched block with red fingertips. "Astor! Put that down!" he yanked the stamp from his son's grip. "And _what_ have I said about weapons in rooms? To the corner, now!"

There was a rustle of fabric as the lady of the house, in all her golden-haired and blue-eyed glory, swept into the scene. "Why hello, darling, Astor! Have I missed something?"

"Nothing important." Stephen Durless shook his head. "And how many times must I ask you to keep Astor out of the weapon hold! Mark my words; one day he will tear through all the tapestries and china, and when he does, don't expect me to be there to stop him!"

"Nonsense!" said his lady, closely echoed by their son, who jabbed the air with all the victory he could muster. "Astor won't even _scratch _the furniture. You know he is not a clumsy boy. He takes after the Middlefords. Don't you, Astor?"

"Yes, Mother!"

Stephen Durless pursed his lips until there was only ashy skin against bone. He looked at his wife, vibrant in her prime. Astor took after her in the way he lowered his shoulders but kept his eyes high in face of adversary. Yet while his eyes were bold, hers were hard. She understood a world women were sheltered from. Her cuts and calluses did not come from hours of female crafts, but from years of handling men's dangers.

Swords. Gunpowder. Death. All because she was a Middleford girl when they needed a Middleford man.

And when the true heir was born, when they wanted a lady, they cast her away. That was how he found her, the firstborn fallen from favor, the awkward blade of grass carved from a rose, left to wither while they tended to their oak. She was a grass that bent to the winds of fate, and they carried her to him.

He watched her caress Astor's head. His golden locks, a shade purer than her own, slipped through her fingers like water that ran too fast. Then the fingers tensed.

"There's _someone_ outside," she said. Stephen swiveled toward the door, anticipating an attack he had not expected in three years, while she snatched the sword from Astor's hands.

"Astor, hide," and with her entire will she looked into her son's eyes. They were frightened, confused. Pure. "Whatever happens, _do not_ get killed. You must stay alive. Understand?"

Astor stared at the sword in her hands and the fire in her eyes. "I—I understand, Mother," he said, though he did not. This was not the mother he knew. At the moment she seemed even stronger than father, who had nothing in his hands but a small red stamp.

The door burst open. Remembering his mother's words, Astor swallowed his scream and dove under the desk, where he saw nothing but heard everything.

"Lord Durless. What a pleasure to be in your company tonight. And—ah." There was a swish of fabric, then a slow creeping of footsteps. _Tap. Tap. Tap. _"This must be." _Tap._ "_Lady_ Durless."

Another swish of fabric, then: "Who are you and what business do you have with our household?"

"Oh, aren't we being a little—rushed—here," the stranger laughed. "Why don't we sit down and have a cup of tea?" There were still more footsteps. Astor pressed his ears to the crack between the desk and the ground. Closing his eyes, he focused on the air. There were two people breathing. He paused, and listened harder. Weren't there supposed to be three?

Then, just barely, he heard the sound of metal against metal. A sword was being drawn. _Shing._

No, his ears perked.

_Shing._

_Shing-Shing._

_Shing Shing Shing Shing Shing Shing —_

His eyes flew open. Twenty swords. Did Mother hear them too?

"…Alright," No. She was letting her guard down, Astor realized with a chill. "Sit there. But I want answers."

_No—Mother, they're hiding!_

"Don't worry, you'll have them. Soon." the breath-less voice laughed. "And I apologize, but I've changed my mind." _Tap. Tap. Tap._ Astor sat very still and listened for the swords. "I don't feel quite up for tea. It calms me down, you see. Dulls the intent." A pause, and the final sword was drawn. This time, everyone heard it. "To _kill._"

Then there was a blur of metal against metal and fabric ripping and it was chaos with the promise of death. But Astor found that if he focused, he could pick out the moves by their sounds. There were only two swords moving. Father was taking slow steps towards the windows. Was he going to run away and leave Mother behind?

It can't be, Astor frowned, and focused harder. The air hissed twenty times in Father's direction. Then he realized—

_Danger!_

Glass shattered—something had been flung out the window. A bare millisecond later—so fast that Astor barely heard it—twenty swords cut through the air.

_Nonononono Please God No—_

Thud.

"STEPHEN!"

"FATHER!"

Astor pushed the desk away and ran to the body by the window, tears blurring his sight. He wiped his eyes, looked at his father, and screamed.

_Blood so much blood red blood twenty swords why is his arm there—_

"ASTOR!" his mother barked. He looked away, shaking. She was shaking too, but her eyes were as hard as ever.

"Astor," she repeated, looking straight into him. Then he finally understood.

_Survive, Astor. For we are survivors._

Turning to the breath-less man, he saw nothing but shadows moving under a cloak. Not even a face. Was this what killed his father? This nameless entity that breathed death and moved like shadow?

Who?

_Or perhaps, 'what'?_

Closing his eyes, Astor plucked a sword from the body lying before him. His hands dripped red. Then he saw no more. Nothing but swords, gunpowder, and death.

* * *

_1881, December 28th_

**THE TIMES**

**FIRE BURNS DOWN DURLESS MANSION, HEIR MISSING**

**A** great fire at the mansion of the Earl of Durless devastated the entire grounds last night, leaving no survivors. Witnesses report hearing explosions at the site before it was enveloped in "balls of flame" that "spread rapidly through the grounds". The cause of the fire remains unknown, but investigations are currently underway. A search for survivors yielded the bodies of Lord and Lady Durless, and various servants, in the main study, bloodied and heavily charred. They are currently being investigated for signs of foul play. The heir, meanwhile, is reported to be missing. It is unknown whether he was involved in foul play surrounding the incident.

Meanwhile, the fate of The Durless Import and Export Company remains murky. It is unclear whether the Duke of Durless will take over his late brother's operations, or, in the case that the missing heir is found and proven innocent, pass them on to the heir. Due to the significant role the Company plays in the trade economy of Britain, Her Majesty The Queen has ordered daily operations to be resumed under the temporary direction of the Earl of Phantomhive.

* * *

_4 years later_

For the second time in the month, Dr. Angelina Durless found herself sitting before a coffin, waiting for a funeral procession to end. It was neither long nor tearful. There was no one left to mourn her father but herself, and her tears for him had long dried. She felt as empty as the church.

Mother, dead. Father, dead. Husband, dead. Sister, dead. Nephew, dead. That man, dead.

_So why am I still alive?_

A clacking of heels roused her from her darkness. She turned and saw a man—no, a boy, a youth, with hair the purest shade of gold. He walked like he carried burdens much heavier than youth. Under the shadows of the church, his eyes were dark and unblinking. They were familiar. Then he looked at her with those hard green eyes and she recoiled.

She saw those eyes whenever she looked into a mirror. She would see them in her nephew when he returned, carrying with him the burdens of men.

"Was he your father?" The golden-haired stranger asked, looking straight into her. Without breaking eye contact, she nodded.

"Ah," he said, and bowed his head. "I'm sorry."

"You have nothing to be sorry for. He was murdered."

"I know. That is why I am sorry."

Angelina looked at him, again, but differently. _Oh,_ she whispered in her head, though she still did not understand. But he carried himself so heavily, so like the way she carried herself, that she felt she could understand a least a part of it.

So she repeated: "You have nothing to be sorry for."

We cannot be sorry for surviving.

When I go up through the mowing field,

The headless aftermath,

Smooth-laid like thatch with the heavy dew,

Half closes the garden path.

And when I come to the garden ground,

The whir of sober birds

Up from the tangle of withered weeds

Is sadder than any words

A tree beside the wall stands bare,

But a leaf that lingered brown,

Disturbed, I doubt not, by my thought,

Comes softly rattling down.

I end not far from my going forth

By picking the faded blue

Of the last remaining aster flower

To carry again to you.

* * *

Okay so it took me forever to churn this thing out. As in, FOREVER. (as in more than a year. I blame alot of things, procrastination being one of them.)

But now that it's out…please leave a review? :P

PS if there is anything that is confusing now (such as the wtf 20 swords no breath thing), it will be clarified in later chapters. Promise.


	2. The way of things

**Heritage**

_ii. the way of things_

_6 years later_

"So. Marriage." The Marquess of Middleford ran a finger down his teacup. It was a nice day to set things in motion. "Have you been thinking about it lately, Elizabeth?"

Elizabeth Middleford looked up from her needlework. "Not more than I usually do, Father. Is something the matter?"

"You have been engaged to Lord Phantomhive for sixteen years." He took a sip long enough for the words to settle. "Quite a long time, if I do say so myself." Then he turned to the window and stood in the sunlight, as if that were all. But Elizabeth had lived long enough to know when to give an answer, even when she did not have one.

"Yes, Father."

The Marquess peered at her from the rim of his teacup. Under the sunlight, his golden hair glinted like an unsheathed sword. "What do you say to a wedding this year? June, perhaps? It will be the finest event of the season."

There was a silence long enough for the Marquess to take a slow sip. Then Elizabeth dropped her needle. "I—What—Oh!" She cried, and leapt from her chair as if he had spilled his tea over her. "Yes! Oh, Father, yes! I _must _speak with the seamstresses tomorrow. My dress has to be perfect! I can just envision the chiffon, and the _lace_, and—a matching outfit for Ciel! And—"

_Ciel._

Her voice went out like a candle in the frost. "Oh. But this…this is all very sudden, Father. I mean…are you sure?" She swallowed her excitement to make room in her mouth for more important sentiments. "Will Ciel agree?"

"Elizabeth," he laughed. Then he stopped looking at her. "How could he possibly refuse?" Almost carelessly, he slid his teacup onto a table by the window, for it was empty and no longer of any use. "Run along, now. I will send a letter to the young Lord to inform him of these arrangements. Why don't you begin preparations?" He smiled. "It won't be long until June, and there is much to do."

"Yes, Father!" Elizabeth beamed, and hurried out of the room. But once the door was shut, her smile faded into the shadows of the corridor.

_Ciel._

She bit her lip. They had been anticipating this marriage for sixteen years. Why, then, did she feel so uneasy?

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"Let me recount. You are trying to—manipulate—my nephew," Frances Middleford said. Her lips tightened like a bow poised to strike. "I don't dispute your capabilities, Leopold, for you have won many a dangerous game before. But surely you realize that this is far from a game." Her eyes glinted like daggers. "Let this be your warning, then. Your petty little machinations will amount to nothing. You may have been an influential knight, but you will never touch the world he controls. You do not understand it." Neither did Elizabeth. But that was just as well, for young girls were like flowers in a greenhouse: cast them to the wild just as they are blossoming to the ways of the world, and they will not survive.

_My dear sir, you do not see the dangers that lie before her. But have you ever? _In the end, was this not what mothers were for?

"I am afraid _you _do not understand," Leopold Middleford said, and adjusted the papers on his desk. "I have always been privy to this power, you see, but it is now that I choose to claim it. For now is the time." He looked into his lady's eyes. "Elizabeth will marry Ciel. This cannot be changed. And when she does…" _We'll see, won't we?_

Frances Middleford looked at him. This was not the knight who fell at her sword so many years ago. This was a merchant, with eyes that saw profit in trade of daughters.

"We will continue this discussion," she snipped, and marched out of the room. Strategy was a muscle she had honed to sharpness in the house of Phantomhive, but in the tranquil house of Middleford she had allowed it to deteriorate. Yet there it was, sleeping under the rust of shame. She could feel old blood trickling over cogs that had once operated with an inhuman efficiency.

For the children's sake, she needed to think. After all, what could a mother do, if she could not protect her children from their father? What could a Phantomhive do, if he could not sacrifice in the name of his legacy?

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Ciel stared at the letter. He had never thought he would live long enough to see _it_, but there _it_ was: '_June the 6__th__'_.

"…you understand, in strengthening the influence, _commercial_ or otherwise, of both households… wish you remain in good health, et cetera, Lord Middleford. Well, well…this is most unanticipated," he tossed the letter onto his desk. "Quite an ingenious bit of scheming, I'll admit. But I am the master here. Nothing slips past my eyes."

Sebastian chose to keep silent, and delivered a steaming platter of tea into Ciel's hands. "Today's brew is chamomile. Is there anything else you wish for, my Lord?"

"Leopold Middleford's head on a platter!" he snarled, sloshing drips of tea over the brim of his cup. "Does he think I'm going to let one marriage push me into the palm of his hand? Does he _really_ think I will let something so miserably trivial as a _wedding _affect my enterprise? Who does he think I am?" He gulped his tea and flung the cup across the room where the silent piano lay.

"My Lord—"

_Smash._

"Young. Master."

It was not within Ciel to flinch, so he settled into his chair and pretended he had heard nothing.

A moment of silence passed, wherein Sebastian watched the boy pick up his control and piece it back together. Pity he could not do the same to the evidence. Then, in an offhand manner betraying nothing, he said, "Lady Elizabeth must be taking to the news well."

That roused Ciel from his well-feigned deafness. Sighing, the young master rested his cheek against his hand, a sharp contrast to the bellowing tower of rage he had been mere moments ago.

"The bastard saw to it that I would find no way out of this," he muttered. Sebastian raised an eyebrow. "Well, if I don't go through with it, Aunt Frances will have my _head. _I can't let Elizabeth down, either, not when she's started _planning_. Good Lord, she's probably concocting something appropriately appalling for me to wear as we speak. Well, Sebastian, here's to hoping that black lace is no longer the trend." Ciel suddenly wished he still had a cup to sip from. He could feel a headache brewing. "So be it. If I can't avoid this wedding, I suppose I must simply avoid everything that follows. And I shall deal with _that_ when the time arises. Now, where was I…oh, yes. What I was _diligently making progress on_, butler, before you so rudely interrupted, was the matter of branching out the company."

"Ah. You are speaking of exports of the global nature," said Sebastian, sweeping away broken china from the base of the piano. "Perhaps it would be best to consult with Lau, then?"

Ciel considered the implications of entrusting his global operations to the notorious drug smuggler. He snorted. "I'd rather not taint my products with his name. No, it would be far prudent to choose a cleaner agent than to rouse undue apprehension among the stakeholders. Sebastian, compile a list of reputable export trading companies based in London. Immediately."

"Yes, my Lord."

Ciel watched the tails of Sebastian's coat disappear behind the door. June the 6th_._ If all went as Middleford intended, it would be his wedding day. His _wedding_ day. The day he would be sworn his prized cousin in exchange for a vague promise of shares.

Well. It was fortunate, then, that he was adept at breaking promises. He had spent enough time in the gutters of society to understand the value of vows. If he considered it, this well-learned lesson was the single, crucial advantage he had over the Marquess, who had little concept of a world where phantoms reigned supreme. Ciel allowed himself a wry smile.

In the underworld, the only promises kept were the ones made in blood.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

According to the archives, export trading companies were a dime a dozen, thought most were not remarkable enough to bear Funtom's name. Sebastian shook his head at man's determination to achieve ambitions far beyond his means. _Pitiful. _Within five minutes, he had come across perhaps one or two companies that might suit his young master's purposes, and neither was quite as extensive as Lau's empire.

_If only the young master was not so successful at what he did,_ Sebastian thought, as the task broached the unacceptable six-minute mark. _Then again, it is one of his few redeeming qualities._

He scanned through the next hopeless pile with a swiftness so mechanical he did not even think about it. _I wonder what I shall make for dinner tonight. Hmm. The young master is getting married. Perhaps something celebratory is in order. _He paused at the thought. _Lobster, yes…I will prepare it as soon as I return. _There were twelve more piles to get through.

_He is getting married. _He wondered again. _Ah. Who is more pitiable, then—he, or Lady Elizabeth? Without a doubt, their wedding will be a spectacle London will never forget, but their marriage can only be a monumental disaster. There is compassion, concern, perhaps even _love_, yes—but there is no understanding. There is no future. _

_No. That is all _mine.

The bitter victory beneath the usual hunger startled him from his musings. Frowning, he peered at the file he was supposed to be inspecting. Oh. This one sounded promising, for it fulfilled the prerequisites and then some, but—well, well, how _unusual…_

Sebastian checked his pocket watch. Six minutes and sixteen seconds. It really was time to return, and time waited for nothing, least of all dinner preparations. He gathered the files in his arms and stepped over the body bleeding across the doorway.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"You're late, Sebastian," Ciel crossed his legs. "What took you?"

"My deepest apologies, young master. The archives were far more—comprehensive—than I had anticipated. However, I have uncovered a few names that may suit your purposes."

Ciel raised a brow at the dog-eared files Sebastian slid onto his desk. "Only three? My, my, Sebastian, it appears you've finally lost your touch." An easy smirk graced his lips as the red he had been aiming for flickered through his servant's eyes. How satisfying. Sometimes it was enough to live for these small revenges.

Deciding to move on, Ciel picked up a file and scanned its contents. _Hmm…too inexperienced. _He shoved it away. The second one met with a similar fate. Then, just as he was ready to unleash his ire upon the closest sentient being, a name on the last file caught his eye.

'_The Durless Import and Export Company.'_

Ciel blinked, and read again. Strange. He could not recall any living members from that particular branch of family, least of all ones who owned trading companies. Perhaps the current head was of more distant kin. As he plunged further into the document, he began ticking off his mental checklist, until it could not be more certain that this was the company he wanted to work with.

_Astor Durless,_ Ciel rolled the name around his tongue. _How shall I approach this mysterious relation? _His eyes strayed about the room and settled on Sebastian, who was checking his pocket watch with a frown. _Hmm…_

"Is something the matter, my Lord?" Sebastian returned the gaze. "Something not to your satisfaction?"

"I—" Ciel paused. "No. Let me think."

"Alright. I shall retire to the kitchens, then."

Just as Sebastian turned to leave, however, Ciel made up his mind.

"Wait, Sebastian," said Ciel, catching his butler's footsteps. "I want you to investigate every last detail of Astor Durless and his company." Then, with a brief pause for thought, "Ring for Lau as well. We need to have a little chat."

"Yes, my Lord."

Sebastian willed away the temptation to make a show of taking out his pocket watch. With this whimsical master, it was no wonder that dinner preparations were always off-schedule.

_But still... _

He considered the way Ciel had mulled over the Durless file, and curled his lips. _Perhaps something interesting will happen soon._

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx_  
_

Lau laid his pipe on his desk. He did not plan to return to it, for the matters at hand called for sober consideration. Ranmao had left his side to resume training; he would make it up to her tonight.

"Durless, was it?" Lau stroked his chin. How funny that those two should meet like this. _Why, it seems almost planned._

Small taps against his window caught his ears. Stepping closer to the glass, he saw a thick veil of dragonflies draped over the shrubbery. A storm was headed for London.

_Well, well, Earl. It seems that wherever you go, hell and high water follows._

He stood by the window, watching the last rays of light disappear behind a grey blanket of clouds. It was time.

"Come, Ranmao," he purred, and she slid from the shadows. "It's time we paid the little Earl a visit."

After all, he couldn't just _let _a competitor steal away his best customer, could he?

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End Chapter 1.

I hate it when ffnet's line break function screws up and I have to resort to rows of x's.

Anyway, hi all! Sorry it took me a while, I was pretty busy with academic stuff. But now I have all my priorities in order, so here you go :D

Please leave a review!

Plutocracy


	3. Lau

**Heritage**

iii. Lau

At precisely eight o'clock, Lau and Ranmao wafted into the foyer, looking for all the world like they had not arrived two hours late. Sebastian made his scowl scarce and led them to the dining hall.

"If I may, Mr. Lau," he said, "it was quite rude of you to delay your arrival with the sole purpose of staying for dinner." Of course, he had accounted for the scoundrel's freeloading tendencies, and had prepared two more courses. Extra guests were not the issue.

_No, _he pursed his lips_. The issue_ _is that when the young master's plans are delayed, I am the one blamed. Really_!_ I must teach the brat a thing or two about patience. Despite how I seem, young master, I'm not a genie. I can't just snap my fingers and make the guests appear. And astounding as it is, _I_ actually have to _work _for things to run smoothly around here. Perhaps you have been immersed too long in your business—I see a lesson in physics is in order. A well-made lunch does not just materialize onto your plate, you know. Honestly! Humans are all hopeless. How old must one be to grasp the concept of the schedule? One insists on desserts before dinner, the other on arriving late for the sake of dinner…no one takes the butler, who has to ensure a smooth flow of events, seriously. Why, they should all try living by the pocket watch...perhaps then they will learn that time is unforgiving, and that the schedule is the only way to mainta—_

"Finally," Ciel crossed his arms. "I was beginning to rot in my seat."

Tucking away his silent tirade for later, Sebastian seated the guests and began serving dinner.

"Tonight's main course is Homard à l'Americaine, with a side of steamed asparagus and potatoes." Sebastian slid a fragrant plate of lobster before each person. It was with no small amount of amusement that he watched Ciel's sour look turn into one of _just what are you playing at_?

Times like these called for the guileless smile.

When he uncorked the Vouvray, Ciel had found his wits again, and was about to voice some regrettable opinion or another when Lau said:

"My, my. This is quite different from the usual fare, Earl." He speared a piece of lobster and licked it. "Very good, hm. What are we celebrating today?"

"That is precisely what I would like to ask." Ciel eyed the glass of wine before him. "Well, Sebastian? Surely you did not prepare all this to, ah, persuade Lau to stay for dinner."

_No, and I think I may have persuaded him to stay for tomorrow's, _he thought dryly. Then he put on a narrow smile. There lay an opportunity to exact a small revenge. The grief the boy inflicted on him earlier was fresh, and demons kept grievances as close as they kept prey.

"Well, young master," Sebastian beamed, "after you received notice from Lord Middleford this afternoon that your wedding is to be held very soon—June the sixth, in fact—I felt it only appropriate to prepare something more elaborate than the standard fare to express my heartfelt congratulations at the wonderful news; after all, it is not every day that a young man brimming with power and potency must _stoop_ to the whims of lesser man, even if it is his fiancée's father, and even if it is done in the name of love or tradition—"

"Wedding? June?" Lau clapped his hands, just as Ciel roared, "Sebastian, I _order you to shut the hell up!_"

And what a look he wore. Sebastian admired his handiwork: trembling fists, heaving chest, a face red like it had been scalded by tea, and narrowed eyes that glimmered with danger. Provoking the boy was an endeavor that left him satisfied like no other, yet in want of more.

_Be patient, _he told himself. _After all, the hungrier one is, the better one's meal will taste. It is but a matter of time. _

The ache burned like hellfire.

Something of his intentions must have slipped onto his face, for Ciel, who had been parting his lips with retort, shut them and scowled. Perhaps he had seen the hook pierced through the bait.

"Why, Earl, you never said anything about a wedding!" Lau leaned over the rim of his wineglass. He clearly intended to pursue the topic down its natural course, which, if Ciel had his way, would go no further than the very instant.

So he said, "and _you _never heard anything about one," and took a dignified bite of lobster. Its succulent flavor did little to ease his fury. No. The demon had better outdo himself with pudding if he should ever _look _at a cat again.

_And _this_ should better be the end of this…this wedding business_, he thought, reaching for his glass. Vouvray, was it? Perhaps there was some sincerity in this affair, then, for alcohol was a vice the butler seldom let him indulge. Ciel curled his lip and toasted to the irony of a demon regulating his sins.

_Mm_.The first sip drew out faint sweetness from the lobster flesh. Savoring the play of flavors, Ciel was content to let dinner taper off into silence, but the matter at hand would not leave him until he heard what Lau had to offer.

"Tell me, Lau," said Ciel. "What do you know of Astor Durless?"

Lau dabbed Ranmao's mouth. "Why, that depends on what the Earl wants to know, of course. After all…" he smiled, cracked his eyes open, and stared.

"What?" Ciel barked. The man kept silent at the worst of times.

"Hmm. What, you say?" Lau speared a piece of lobster. The butler's ability to pick and prepare the choicest specimens was truly in a class of its own. "The nobles have much bad blood between them, do they not? Perhaps certain things…" he held the morsel up to the candlelight. "Well, let me put it this way, Earl: certain things are kept secret because should they be known, should they be…_found out_…"

"_What?"_

Lau bit into the morsel and drained it of its juices. Waiting between bites was torturous, but allowed him to savor every last bit of flesh.

"Well, for one, the world you know may cease to exist," he said. "Even your world is built on certain truths, Earl. Your butler, for one. Your fiancée. The company. The _Queen. _What if I revealed to you a secret so great and so terrible_…_" his eyes glimmered, "…that it would turn one of those truths into…a _lie? _What if your reality should collapse on itself? Could you pick yourself up again?"

_Could you pick yourself up again? Again? Again? Again?_

The mark of the beast prickled.

"What does this have to do with Astor Durless?" Ciel snarled, before more sinister emotions could seize him. "What truth are you hiding that is so ugly, even I cannot bear it? Tell me, Lau. I grow tired of your riddles!"

Lau looked at the boy. _I see the years have not changed you, little Earl. But you cannot stay the same forever._

"The Durless Import and Export Company was once…under the hands of your father," he said, weighing each word. "However, I was well-acquainted with it beforehand—and it was precisely the reason that I came to know the late Lord Phantomhive." Watching surprise light up in Ciel's eyes, he conceded that feeding the boy facts, scrap by scrap, was fulfilling in its own way. "My own company was just beginning to establish itself in this country, and I had found an ally of sorts in Stephen Durless, who was the head of the Durless Company then. He helped me, shall we say, _ingratiate _myself where I needed to. And for that, I will always be grateful. However," he took a slow sip of wine, "however…soon after we'd settled into a comfortable partnership, he and his wife were murdered, and his house was burnt to ground."

Lau took another sip of wine, allowing Ciel time to absorb his words. The boy did not look distraught, per se, but he had lowered his head. One could almost hear the cogs clicking into place, the connections trying to be made.

"Now, the murderers were never found," he continued, "but there were rumors circulating in some of my circles...rumors that he was killed because he was suspected of treason. Some said he was killed for spreading, ah, foreign parasites…setting them loose upon the very roots of London." Lau licked the rim of his glass. In the candlelight, his eyes glittered with darkness. "But Lord Phantomhive, who took over the company—under the Queen's orders, as they say—inspected me thoroughly and found nothing terribly amiss. So I continued building my trading empire, while he slowly ran Stephen Durless's Company to ground, and the whispers began to fade. But one whisper never quite died."

"Oh?" Ciel cocked his head.

"Oh, indeed," Lau nodded. "For the night Stephen Durless and his wife were killed, his eight-year-old son escaped. Was he spared? Was he lucky? Or did he, incredible as it may seem, overpower his attackers? Whatever happened that night, he disappeared and left no trace behind. He returned four years later, around the same month his uncle and your grandfather, the Duke of Durless, passed away. The same month your parents were killed, and your house burnt down." A pause. The food was going cold. "You were ten, were you not?" His smile was forged in wickedness. "Well, I don't know what happened to him in the four years he went missing, and was never quite curious enough to ask. He simply came back, assumed the Duke's title, and began rebuilding the wreck that was once his father's enterprise. And that is what I can tell you of Astor Durless."

With that, Lau stretched, and poured himself another glass of wine. Ciel stared into his own drink.

_My father? My _grand_father? I don't think I've even met the man before. _He tried to remember his childhood, but it was too far away._ Also, if he is his uncle…it is suspicious that he should return the same time…could he have killed…? It certainly is not out of the question. I would know._

_But why would he? _

"There's something missing," he tapped the stem of his glass. "Something crucial…something that explains why things played out the way they did. But there are too many possibilities. No. I need to narrow them down. Sebastian!" He snapped his head. "Have you discovered anything yet?"

"My apologies, young master, but I have been preoccupied with chores. I shall look into the matter when the day is over."

Ciel curled his lips and looked as if he was about to tell the butler to look into it _right now, to hell with the day, _when Lau barked a laugh.

"Oh, I wouldn't do that if I were you," he hummed. "Bad blood, hm, bad blood."

"Yes, I am beginning to suspect it," Ciel said, and shared a look with Sebastian. Something was afoot. "Still, I make it a habit to investigate people I am interested in working with. _Bad blood _notwithstanding, I have every intention of cooperating with the Durless Company to extend my influence."

Lau's smile twisted like a serpent. "Ah, but you have heard of Pandora's box, yes? I think, that should…" he lowered his voice, "should you delve further into this matter, you will no doubt find what you seek. But what you seek now may not be what you seek later. And when you want to close the box again, it will be too late. You see, Earl, you cannot upset a grave without waking its _phantoms_. The buried don't like their resting places disturbed. No, Earl, some things are beyond even your jurisdiction. Best you let go of the thought, and come to me."

_Well, well._ Ciel snorted. "Don't waste my time. I have no plans of working with you, you shameless crook."

"Am I? Aren't you?" Lau purred, and stroked Ranmao's leg.

For the first time that night, Ciel smiled, but his eyes were cold.

"Sebastian," he murmured, "Chase these two rats out of my home. And while you're at it, search the records for everything there is on Astor Durless and his company. _Make it your top priority._"

"Yes, my Lord."

_It was such wonderful lobster, too, _Lau sighed, as he and Ranmao absconded into the night, leaving a trial of wine and blood in their wake. _Perhaps I should not have teased him so._

"Cheers, Earl," he toasted to the rain. "Looks like you'll never stop being a bully, mm?"

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Whew, an unbroken 2000 word scene. One of the longest I've done, but it will probably be typical with this kind of fic. Well, at least it avoids the line break issue.

Oh, and I made a minor change to chapter one...one of the dates was mislabeled. Which resulted in the line breaks disappearing when I corrected it. Oh, ffnet, you.

Anyway, was anyone else extremely aroused by Alois in episode 5? Because I sure as hell was. Oh Alois, you sexy beast.

Please leave a comment :)


	4. Pandora's box

**Heritage**

iv. pandora's box

As he poured himself another glass of wine, Ciel let his eyes roam the wide expanse of hall. The clunk of the bottle echoed like a clock's chime.

_Father took over the company, _he pondered. Paused. _I suppose it's not too far of a stretch for Her Majesty to assign that sort of duty to the head of Phantomhive. But why? How were the Durlesses connected to the underworld? _

Ponder, and pause. He sipped the wine like it was water.

_Lau did say that Stephen Durless helped him pave his way in the underground market. Hm. And he was suspected treason, wasn't he…but why? My predecessor and I have had little issue working with foreigners. _There lay the gaping hole he itched to fill._ Also…the company itself did not die with its leader. But from the sounds of things, my predecessor did little to encourage its growth. Why? Why allow it to survive, and then wither away? After all, _he licked his lips, _if you are looking to bring down a company, then the death of its head is a perfectly good way of doing so. It would be abrupt, but easily disguised. _

_No. There must have been a different motive…but what? What kind of role did the company play in affairs back then?_

Ponder, and pause. The sips grew long.

_Sebastian should have the information I need. God, I wish he'd hurry._

_Still, _he thought, _there's one thing I know for sure_. The file Sebastian had retrieved earlier lay opened in his lap like a favorite novel. _The company has no connections to the underworld right now. Astor Durless…this is the first I've heard of him. Hm. And, if the facts here reflect the current situation, it appears that he is very scrupulous in his business practices._

_Scrupulous, eh, _he curled his lips. _No signs of the black market there. Still, one can never be too sure._

_That's why Sebastian should _hurry up.

Ponder, and pause. The glass was little more than empty.

_Ah, well. Shouldn't it be enough that the Durless Company is successful right now? _Ciel leaned into the warmth of his chair and his wine. _I mean, really, why do I care about all of this? So something may have happened between my father and his years ago…but by the looks of it, he seems like a reasonable person to negotiate with…then again, he did disappear to God-knows-where for four years, so who knows…_

Just as he brought the last drops of wine to his mouth, Sebastian swept into the hall, notepad in hand.

"My lord," he bowed, "I have the information." Then, wrinkling his nose, he said, "I should not have brought out the alcohol tonight."

"Just give me the notes."

Sebastian mustered all the disapproval his face could carry as he cleared away dinner. "As you wish, young master. Where would you like me to start?"

"Uh..." Strange…he actually had to think about that. "Alright, then…did you find out anything regarding Astor Durless's reappearance?"

"Yes. It appears that it coincided with the death of the late Duke of Durless."

"Really." Ciel reached for the bottle. There was nothing quite like a Vouvray in its prime to spur one's mental facilities. "Think he could've killed him?"

"The possibility exists. And—young master, I _must _insist—"

"Shut up. I'm getting married." The glass was full once more. "Elaborate."

"Well, if you're sure," said Sebastian, a frown etched on his face. "It was recorded that the late Duke of Durless died of murder."

_Murder, _Ciel thought, and rolled the word around his tongue. The candles hissed at him. It was getting warm. _Murder, hm…_

_Durless…murdered. _

A vibrant red flashed across his memory. And as suddenly as he had lost the woman, he awoke.

"Wha—Murder!" Ciel slammed his glass onto the table. It trembled, spilled, but did not break. "I see...there may be something going on, after all. But what I don't understand is how the Duke plays into this, if he does at all. Why…" he furrowed his brows. It was time to think. "Alright. Let's assume Astor Durless did kill the Duke. What are his possible motivations? Status? Revenge_?_ For _what? _No, before that…what role could the Duke have played…and in what? Also—"

"If I may," Sebastian cut in, "you still cannot confirm if the late Duke was murdered by current one. It is possible that the murderer was another person, yes?"

A pause.

"Too many things are possible, Sebastian," said Ciel. There were many holes to fill, but nothing to fill them with. "At this point, it's most likely that Astor Durless is responsible for the murder. Look at the coincidence involved in his reappearance and the death of the Duke. Sebastian, he disappeared for _four_ years. Did he just happen to have timing so remarkably convenient that he should wander back to London just when the Duke was murdered and left behind a title with no inheritor but himself?"

"Well, if you put it that way. Still, one must remember that he was twelve."

_Twelve?_

"Sebastian," said Ciel. "Are you insinuating that children cannot kill?"

There was a silence wherein the candlelight came to life in Sebastian's eyes and danced like hellfire. Then the butler said, "Of course not, my lord," and the spell was broken.

"Actually, I'm more curious about what the Duke did to warrant death," Ciel stroked his chin. "Still, your point is somewhat valid…if that person was twelve, what could have motivated him to kill his grandfa—I mean, his uncle? Wait…uncle?" Then, looking as if something had just gutted him, he snapped, "Sebastian, give me a pen and paper."

As soon as Sebastian had delivered the objects, Ciel picked a sheet, and began scribbling like he would never write again.

"Pardon me, young master," said Sebastian, when a moment had passed and the pen raged on, "but what are you, ah, drawing?"

"Quiet. I need to concentrate."

_Vincent Phantomhive...Rachel Durless…_Ciel drew a line from his mother's name to his grandfather's. _Duke Durless. And…Stephen Durless. _A line appeared between them. They would have to be brothers, if the Duke was Astor's uncle. Then, frowning, he wrote Astor's name beneath a line that linked it to Stephen's. _18 years old, _he jotted.

"Interesting. Very interesting." He held the paper up to candlelight. "If this is right, I am his first cousin, once-removed. But what's more interesting is that we should be linked in such a way…yes, this certainly puts a new perspective on things."

"Young master?"

"Let's see…Stephen Durless would have been connected to my predecessor by marriage. That may explain why the company was handed over to him. But that the man should be tied in such a manner to the Phantomhives…I feel that there is a greater significance to this," Ciel said, and rubbed the creases between his eyes. "What this seems to suggest is that my grandfather might have played some kind of role in this mess, which means my theory on Astor Durless may be correct. Did you find anything about the Duke, Sebastian?"

"I found nothing, my lord," Sebastian bowed.

"Then I suppose there's no way to find out right now," muttered Ciel. He traced the lines that connected his name to Astor's.

_Funny that we should be the only ones alive._

_Bad blood, _Lau had said. Now he was beginning to understand. Absently, he tapped Astor's name, and found a hole.

"Sebastian," said Ciel, "who was Astor Durless's mother?"

Sebastian tapped his chin in thought, but years of working with the devil had trained Ciel to recognize when—and _why—_he was putting on an act. The room was cool with foreboding. Then Sebastian said, "His mother was Phillipa Middleford, my lord."

Phillipa Middleford. Middleford.

Ciel inhaled a sharp breath, scrawled the name down, and drew a trembling line that linked it to Astor and Stephen's. The implications...

_Ah, but you have heard of Pandora's box, yes? I think that should you delve further into this matter, you will no doubt find what you seek…_

"Sebastian." Ciel gripped the pen. "How was she—related to Leopold Middleford?"

…_but what you seek now may not be what you seek later…_

"They were siblings, my lord."

…_and when you want to close the box again, it will be too late. _

Oh.

Ciel's lips curled and lifted around his teeth. He looked like a man who had died in laughter. Setting pen to paper, he threw down three names. _Leopold Middleford._ _Frances Phantomhive. Elizabeth Middleford. _Then he drew a faint line between his name and his fiancée's.

"Look at this, Sebastian," he said, and slammed the paper onto the table. "_Look _at this."

_"Quite an ingenious bit of scheming, I'll admit. But I am the master here. Nothing slips past my eyes."_

How could he have underestimated the man who took a Phantomhive bride?

"Really, young master," said Sebastian, holding the glass that had almost spilled. He set it on the table and picked up the paper. "There is no need to get so jumpy—oh. I see."

"You see, Sebastian?" His jaw was tight. "You see what this marriage will bring me? _This marriage!_" With a snarl, he brought his hand to the table and swept off everything before him. _Thunk. _Not loud enough. Not _nearly_ loud enough.

"Young master—"

"Get out." The dinner was little more than a joke. The lobster, the wine, the wedding—everything. Everything amounted to little more than a great, cosmic _joke_. Then Sebastian stared at him with those taunting red eyes, and something snapped. Punching the table, he roared, "_Get OUT!"_

"…Yes, my lord," said Sebastian. But he did not bow.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxx

The room was silent once more. Empty. Just the way he wanted it.

_This marriage, _thought Ciel, _will be the end of me. _He picked up his upset glass, rolled it around his fingers, and tossed it to the side. _Crash. _Sebastian could take care of that. Then he grabbed the bottle by its neck and sank into his chair.

Gulp.

_Typical. Just typical. _The candles burned low. _The one person I want to work with…Leopold Middleford just _had_ to be a blood relative. And who knows how close they really are. I have no doubt he will try to exploit their common lineage to gain inroads into my profits._

_Seems like it'll be hard to outmaneuver the son of a bitch._

He tipped the bottle into his lips, swallowing the rim whole. The first candle flickered to nothing.

_Postponing the wedding will be of little use, then. _He barked a laugh._ The bastard _really _made sure I couldn't talk my way out of this. But I won't let him chain me to him—I won't let him have what he wants. Not my shares, not my powers…nothing. He will learn to respect me. I belong to no one._

The ring on his thumb shone in the candle's dying flames. _No, _he paused, _I belong to Her Majesty._

"I belong to the Her Majesty," he said aloud. Then he snorted and poured the remnants of wine into his mouth.

_I belong to the Queen. That will not change. And that will not change anything._

_I am not a free man. _

Why, then, the struggle? He was shackled—if not to the royal family, then to Elizabeth and Aunt Frances and the bastard Leopold, and if not to them, then to the Devil himself. The chains were forged in his blood and soul.

Why had he run so far from his kennel?

When did he start to run?

Now the collar was choking him, reminding him of his place.

"Bad dog," he chuckled, and slumped onto the table, bottle empty in his hands. Empty. Just the way he wanted it. Then he tried to think.

_Can't escape Lizzie if I want Durless, so I'll just…work my way through it. _Even his thoughts were barely coherent. _Bloody hell, why not. Can't wait for the day Sebastian decides to spare me from this shit and kill me. 'S too bad we made the contract. Now we have to wait. _

He yawned. The second candle went.

_Chains, eh. _With a slow swing of the arm, he released the bottle and plucked his eye patch off. _Suppose this one's not too bad, as far as they go. Sebastian might be a right irritating prick sometimes, but at least we have a sort of mutual understanding. And, _he remembered foggily, _I had a choice._

_I had a choice._

_What has been sacrificed cannot be returned. What's done cannot be undone. I never intended to summon him._

_But _I_ called him 'Sebastian'._

The last candle died.

Crash.

Lifting his head, Ciel made out shards of bottle on the floor. They winked in the moonlight. He would have been content to ignore them, too, had Sebastian not burst into the room the very next instant.

"Young master!" said Sebastian. "Honestly_. _I could smell your inebriation several feet down the hall."

"Sod off. Too…noisy." Ciel turned his face the other way. His head was starting to ring.

"You leave me with no choice, young master," said Sebastian, though his voice was lower. Closer. Ciel cracked open a bleary eye, and saw the butler reaching for his torso.

"Wha—"

A scrape of chair against floor later, he was tucked between Sebastian's arms, pressed against a familiar chest. Wasn't he getting a bit old for this?

"Sebastian…put me down."

"With all due respect, young master," murmured Sebastian, "you must take your bath right now, and you're hardly in a state to walk anywhere by yourself. If you must complain, blame yourself for drinking the entire bottle. Really…" he sighed, and shifted the boy in his arms. "I shall not place so much store in your judgment next time. You treat alcohol far too lightly."

"Mm…Lau drank half of it," Ciel muttered, but winced at a sharp throb in his head. He pressed his face into Sebastian's warmth and willed the pain to vanish.

"Even half a bottle is not wise."

"Quiet. Head hurts."

"Yes, my lord."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxx

When they reached the bathroom, Sebastian hoisted Ciel onto a stool, and began undressing him. The process was hindered by Ciel's inability to sit up straight.

"Never again," muttered Sebastian, as he tried to pull off the boy's pants without toppling the stool. "Never again will I leave you unattended with alcohol while your temper is running high." He folded away the pants and started on the shirt. "The pudding I took great pains to make must go to waste, I suppose."

Grunting, Ciel stood up, and fell into the tub.

_Splash._

"Wha—young master!" spluttered Sebastian. The front of his vest and pants were soaked. Ciel lay in the tub, coughing up bath water.

_Humans…when will they learn some _self control_? _

With a long-suffering sigh, the butler shrugged off his vest, and rolled up his sleeves. He knelt by the tub and began scrubbing the boy's hair.

They sat in silence.

"Sebastian," said Ciel, "will I ever be free?"

The scrubbing paused.

"What do you mean, my lord?"

Ciel tipped his head back and stared into the demon's eyes. His gaze was foggy, but the eye that held the contract gleamed clear as ever.

"I don't know," he said. Then he parted his lips and laughed. "Maybe I'm thinking too much about the wedding. What say you, demon? Am I wrong to think so much?"

"I think," said Sebastian, "that you are drunk, and should not be thinking at all." He began scrubbing the boy's bony arms. Still, the question lingered, and he wondered when the boy began questioning his state of affairs. The young master had always taken life in stride, duties, demons, and all. To question the established was out of his habit.

What was it that he had said?

"_There are only two kinds of people in this world: those who steal, and those who are stolen from."_

Yes. That was his young master to the core.

So why was he wavering?

"Why don't you want to get married, my lord?" asked Sebastian. The boy's chest tensed under his fingers. Ah. He had hit the root of the problem.

"It's just," began Ciel. "…Well. I don't remember."

"…I see."

"But I do remember that I don't want to get married. To her."

Interesting_._

"Is that why you were so angry?"

"Probably." Ciel stretched, narrowly missing Sebastian's eyes. "It…it ruins everything, you see. I don't…need it…or want…it..."

"Is that so?" Hm. Were they getting anywhere close to an answer?

"'S right…I only want…_mmmnnahh…_"

Sebastian blinked, and looked down. Oh. Somewhere in his questions, he had forgotten that he was washing the boy, and had curled his fingers around a nipple. The warm nub of flesh stood erect under his fingers.

"Nnnrgh," gasped Ciel. Then he rubbed the nipple against the bare fingertips.

At the ensuing whine, Sebastian raised a brow, and dragged a slow circle with his nail.

"_Ahhh…_"

_Well, well, _thought Sebastian. _This certainly is an interesting…development. But what on earth led to it?_

Then it hit him. Humans were easy to arouse when drunk. Especially humans like his young master, who repressed their sexual desires on principle. And the boy had consumed a better portion of the bottle of wine.

"Young master," said Sebastian, lifting his hand off the chest. "This is not a good idea. You are to be married soon, after all."

"Shut up," said Ciel. His face was flushed, and other parts of his anatomy were beginning to rise. "Shut up…or put it back…"

_Well, well. _Was the boy _propositioning _him? How amusing. It was too bad that he had aesthetics to follow.

"I'm afraid I can't do _that, _young master." Sebastian eyed the erection, which showed no sign of wilting on its own. "Hm. It seems you have a little…problem. Shall I look away and let you, ah, finish it off?"

With a withering glare, Ciel gripped his "little problem," and began stroking. Sebastian curled his lips and turned the other way. The young master had never been so…_open_…before. He filed the information for later use.

Fwup. Fwup. Splash.

"Mmmnnn_…"_

Fwup.

"Ahhn_…"_

_Really, young master, _thought Sebastian, _you don't have to sound so...wanton. _

Fwupfwupfwup. Gasp. _"Ughh…."_

It was at times like these when his sensitive ears were both a blessing and a curse.

"_Haaahhh….Uhhh…"_

Fwup. Fwup. Fwupfwupfwupfwupfwupfwup. Splash.

"_Mmmnnnn..aaaAAHHH! Ohhh…"_

Sebastian dug his nails into his arms. He could smell the arousal.

"_Hah…Hah…Hah…"_

He could taste it.

"_Nnnnhhhhhh…!"_

The boy was going to come.

Three.

"_Uhhh!"_

Two.

"_Oh…oh…"_

One.

"…_HhhaaaAAAHHHH! S…Sebastiaaahhhhhhn….!"_

Phut. Phut. Phut. _Splat._

Sebastian's arms bled.

_He called my name. _The demon closed his eyes, and breathed in the spent arousal. _He called _my name.

_How very—amusing.  
_

But the scent was so...

_I want..._

_...nothing. Restrain yourself._

Turning around with something akin to anticipation, Sebastian found that the boy had fallen asleep in his own come. He shook his head. _Humans. _Then he plucked the boy from the tub, dipped a finger in the cloudy water, and licked.

_Oh. Very nice. _

Without warning, the boy twitched and slid down his chest, pressing warm lips against his navel.

_Oh. _

Sebastian's eyes flared.

_Hungry. So very…hungry._

"You are very brave, boy," murmured Sebastian. "To taunt a demon like this…"

He hoisted the sleeping boy onto the stool and dressed him in a nightshirt, taking care not to linger.

"…takes a special soul."

Then he tucked Ciel between his arms and left for the hall.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxx

So that was Voyeur!Sebastian and Exhibitionist!Ciel. Mmm, kinky.

I feel kinda guilty that I'm putting off my research to write this, though. Review to ease my soul? :'D

Plutocracy

_11/08: Edited some content._


	5. Mechanics of a power struggle

**Heritage**

v. mechanics of a power struggle

* * *

Thud, thud, thud. Swoosh.

Light.

"Young master."

Throb.

"It's time to get up, young master."

_The hell it is._

Tap, tap. Swoosh. Cold.

_Shit, legs…give me back my covers, bastard!_

"Must I haul you out of bed myself?"

Th_rob._

_Touch me and I WILL KILL YOU._

"I'm counting to three, young master…"

_What the—who're you treating like a child?_

"Three…"

Throb.

"Two..."

Throb. Throb.

"One."

"…Get. Away. From me_._"

While it took much effort to retrain his jaw to speak, nothing quite compared to the struggle to open his eyes without letting any light in. Ciel raised his head, groaned, and dropped back onto his pillow. What on Earth could ever be worth this pain?

"I have prepared your tea, young master," said Sebastian. "Come, now, it really is time to get up."

_Funny. Doesn't feel like it._

"…Help me up," said Ciel.

Throb.

Bowing, Sebastian put out an arm for him to grasp, and tugged him upright. Ciel waved away the newspaper, but took the tea.

Sip.

Throb.

Alas. It was worth a try.

"Perhaps this will teach the young master not to drink himself to the point of oblivion."

"It was not oblivion," grunted Ciel. "You exaggerate. Hand me the paper, will you."

"Of course."

Nothing of particular interest made the news today. Not even a whiff of the impeding wedding. Then, a small corner caught his eye:

"**More owners report cats missing! Where have London's pets gone? (p. 06)**"

_Cats?_

Raising a brow, Ciel flipped to the page, and brandished it in his butler's face. "I hope you have nothing to do with this," he said, wrinkling his nose in the shadow of a sneeze. "You'd better have nothing to do with this."

"Ah," Sebastian scanned the page. "No, I'm afraid not. But it seems I should be more careful from now on…"

"Wha—I thought I told you to get rid of them!"

"You ordered them removed from your sight_._"

Ciel scowled. If he wished, he could order Sebastian to remove all his _pets _from the grounds, but the blasted demon would find some way around it. So he sniffed, folded the paper, and tossed it to one side. There was little point in dodging the inevitable, after all.

"The young master's schedule is free today," said Sebastian. "Would you like to go over the progress made last night?"

"What progress?" Ciel swung his legs over the edge of the bed.

_Last night...?_

Throb.

"Why," said Sebastian, "does the young master remember nothing of the great fuss he kicked up over his findings on the Durless Company? Or…" his lips curled, "the fuss he kicked up _after…_"

Ciel watched Sebastian unbutton his nightshirt, and tried to think past the pounding headache. Bits and pieces returned. Lau. Dinner. Wine. _Throb_. Astor Durless—first cousin, once-removed, possible murderer, yet untouched (was he?) by the underworld. Missing pieces, missing pieces. _Middleford…_anger, anger, anger. Yearning. Strong arms. Lizzie. Warmth.

_Warmth?_

What was this…

…_Yearning. Why do I yearn? _

_Why do I grieve?_

Throb.

Questions, questions. Dig a little further, and the answer…

_...This feeling?_

Warmth. Warm—hand. No…fingers? Whose? His own? Or—and…

_Oh._

_God._

"Well, young master?" said Sebastian. With a start, Ciel found himself gazing at eyes too red to be human.

_Him. _

"I," he said, "remember nothing."

Then he slapped away the hand on his thigh. The patch of leg, clothed, prickled as if it were bare.

_Don't—go there._

"Really, my lord," said Sebastian, "_nothing?_"

A silence. For a moment, Ciel returned the gaze, but the longer he looked, the more it seemed as if he would be lost in it.

"Don't be impertinent," he said, and looked away. The room seemed to close around them. Abruptly, he stood, and walked to the door as steadily as he could manage. It was like an awakening of a sense: all at once, he could feel the warmth that stung his cheeks, and the awkwardness of his hands. When Sebastian stood, he could hear every rustle of fabric, every shift in the air.

It unsettled him.

So he stepped out of its way, before it could swallow him whole.

"Ring Elizabeth," said Ciel. He turned the doorknob and let himself out of the stifling air. "I will be paying her a visit today."

"Yes, my lord."

_Now, _thought Ciel, walking briskly to breakfast, _let's hear what Leopold Middleford has to say for himself._

_

* * *

_

Breakfast ended with more leftovers than usual. When Sebastian probed into his unwillingness to eat, Ciel chalked it up to nausea, though never in his life had a hangover caused his innards to roil whenever his butler came near. This he attributed to the fool he made of himself last night.

_What on earth possessed me to do…_that_…in front of him? _thought Ciel. He would have given himself a slap across each cheek if the act did not threaten to beget further indignity. _Honestly. I can't believe myself. I'll never drink again._

"The carriage will arrive in seven minutes," said Sebastian. "Shall we head to the foyer?"

With a stiff nod, Ciel stood, and left the room so briskly one might have thought the carriage was already waiting. When he reached the foyer, however, he was dismayed to find that in his anxiety to lose his butler, he had taken all the shortcuts.

Click.

"Four more minutes, young master," said Sebastian.

Ciel leaned against the stair rail and crossed his arms. Yesterday, he would have relaxed in the silence, but today it hung so thick that even a rustle disturbed him. It did not help when Sebastian began to walk around and shift the hangings, muttering every now and then. Ciel felt an odd desire to look, but trained his eyes on his feet.

A wordless moment passed. Ciel stifled a sneeze. Then, caving to his curiosity, he peered at Sebastian from the roots of his lashes, only to find him staring right back.

He flinched.

"Is something the matter?" said Sebastian. His lips, curled, betrayed his amusement.

Taking a deep breath, Ciel tried to stifle the pounding in his veins. "_Nothing_," he said, and pretended to flick lint from his coat.

Good lord. How was it that he kept making a fool of himself?

"Hm. Is that so," said Sebastian. "In any case, I can hear the horses coming. Now would be a good time for us to head outside."

_Us?_

Ciel started. Would he have to endure an entire ride with the demon, knowing it—knew the things it did?

Could he?

Then he saw the taunt in Sebastian's eyes. It was as if a great cloud had been whipped away: for the first time that morning, his head was clear again.

…_What on earth am_ I_ getting shy over? _he thought, and drew himself up. _I am only human, after all. He knows it too well._

_How many times has he seen me at my worst?_

Too many.

_Have I ever cared?_

Not once.

_Then how, _he scowled,_ can I stay embarrassed over something so…_

_...so trivial?_

And in the grand scheme of things, how could this—inconsistency_—_matter, when he had already sold his soul?

It could not matter. He would not let it.

"Let us head outside, then," said Ciel, as the clopping drew to a halt. He strode to the door, slapped away Sebastian's hand, and reached for the doorknob himself. With a cock of his head, he met the demon's eyes.

"Are you coming?" said Ciel.

Sebastian raised both eyebrows. Then he smiled, stepped back, and bowed.

"Yes, my lord."

* * *

When the clock struck ten, Frances Middleford sat herself in the foyer, book in hand, and began reading her husband from the corner of her eye. It did not become her to hide her intentions so. Still, it was not Leopold she was trying to fool, but Elizabeth, who would be better off ignorant to their politics until she was married and tucked within the walls of Phantomhive.

_Yet the marriage itself has become the problem, _she thought, and flicked the page like she would an insect_. _In the corner of her eye, Leopold stood, looking down his nose at the grass beneath the window. Frances shook her head with a snort. Then, realizing her slip, she muttered something about contemporary prose, but her daughter's gaze remained on the door.

"They should be arriving soon," said Elizabeth, twisting the lace that gathered at her knee.

"Don't bite your lip, it's unbecoming," said Frances. "He will be here on time, or I will take his reeducation upon myself. His and his butler's both."

"Yes, Mother."

Still, Elizabeth's frown did not ease. Today would mark their first meeting since the proclamation of the wedding date. The boy had not replied to the announcement in any manner, only ringing the manor this morning to inform them of his visit. Little wonder, then, that Elizabeth seemed to hum with nerves, for she had already commenced a good part of the wedding preparations.

_But it is her prerogative, _Frances reminded herself._ It cannot be taken from her. Not by her father, nor any other man. _

_I will not let them. _

"Rise," Frances said, and shut her book. "I hear the horses."

"Oh, at last," sighed Elizabeth. Standing, she patted down her dress, and skittered to the door. Frances followed close behind, careful to keep a distance between her daughter and Leopold, who looked as if he were struggling to distribute shares of indifference across his smug face.

_Oh, stop it, _thought Frances. _The immensity of your ego does not lend itself well to disguise. Alas, the same must now be said of your waistline. This is only because you adjust your training regimen as you please! As your wife, I am most indignant at your behavior. Why, if you were not so eager to establish yourself commercially, you would be…_

_...a better man. A better father._

_And I would not have to worry as I do now._

Hearing the bell, Frances looked away, and watched Elizabeth open the door to her fate.

"Ciel!" cried Elizabeth. "You're here, Ciel, you're here. Well, come in! You too, Sebastian."

"Hello, Eli—Lizzie," said Ciel. To Frances, he gave a sharp nod. "Good day to you, Aunt Frances."

"And to you, Ciel," she said, and stepped away to observe him. He still smiled at Elizabeth like a cousin would, which did not faze the girl, for she had learned to handle his habits just as he had learned to handle hers. But when Leopold swaggered forward, Ciel's face clenched in a manner Frances had only seen in Vincent.

_He has grown, _thought Frances, hands damp.

"Lord Middleford," said Ciel.

"Lord Phantomhive," said Leopold, with a thrust of his chest. "How wonderful to see you in good health. I assume you've received the news? Dear me," he smirked, "of _course_ you have. Why else would you be here?"

"I am here to visit Elizabeth," Ciel said, and snatched Elizabeth's hand. "Now, if you'll excuse me, my cousin and I must go…take a stroll in the garden."

"Ah, but 'cousin' is such a cold way of addressing one's fiancée, Ciel," chortled Leopold. "After all, you are to be married very soon. How about it, Elizabeth? Isn't the young Earl being quite rude?"

"I…" Elizabeth shrunk. "I—"

"My apologies." Ciel tightened his grip on the hand. "I had not realized that the Lord possessed such sensitive ears. Now I understand why there are no whispers about this house."

"Wha—"

"And if any doubts should continue to exist about my feelings, let me banish them now. I, Ciel Phantomhive, cannot be more satisfied by the arrangements pronounced by _my_ _fiancée_, Elizabeth Middleford. Let nothing come between us so long as we are sworn!"

With that, he drew himself up, and stalked down the hall. Elizabeth hung onto his arm, looking back with something akin to worry.

"Tha…that's all and well, then!" Leopold called after them. He looked as if he were scrambling to put together the last words in. "It's all going according to _plan_, alright!"

Ciel paused. Cocking his head back, he smirked.

"Of course it is, dear _father_," said Ciel. "Why else would I be here?"

Then he and Elizabeth swept out of sight.

"I—wha—that boy!" spluttered Leopold. With a loud cough, he straightened himself, and looked at everywhere but Frances.

"Don't you have something else to do?" said Frances, raising a brow.

"Of _course_," said Leopold. He scurried out of the room as fast as his dignity would allow.

_A brilliant performance, _thought Frances, mind's eye on her husband's pale face. _He managed to save Elizabeth's pride and unsettle Leopold in one blow. Well, well, brother…it seems you have conceived an heir truly worthy of the name. Perhaps it is not so bad, then, to keep Elizabeth so close to the line, if she can be protected from the likes Leopold._

If _she can be, that is. The boy has yet to show his cards. _

_But if she must be dragged into their nasty little web of corporate politics, he had better have some up his sleeve. _

_I will make sure of it._

"Sebastian," said Frances, "as the butler of the house of Phantomhive, you will soon serve my daughter."

"Yes, ma'am. I have already made the necessary preparations."

"As I expected. Still, let us have a little talk…"

* * *

A/N: FINALLY, LINE BREAKS. TOOK YOU LONG ENOUGH.

Please leave a comment!


	6. Wild card

**Heritage**

vi. wild card

* * *

_Let nothing come between us, was it? _thought Ciel. He said what he had to save Elizabeth's face, and to throw Leopold off footing. Never mind that he did not have a plan behind his words. The man would draw his own conclusions, leaving Ciel more time to come up with something.

"It's such a pleasant day, Ciel," said Elizabeth. "Why don't we have a picnic later?"

"Hm?" Ciel looked up. "Ah, yes, of course."

"You're not listening, are you," Elizabeth shook her head. "Well, it's alright, you must be quite deep in thought. I hope I'm not keeping you from your work." She picked a flower and twisted it in her fingers. "Um…I'm not, am I?"

"Don't worry about me," said Ciel. When she did not smile, he squeezed her hand. "I don't want to trouble you with my work. Not when you have a wedding to worry about."

Elizabeth pursed her lips in a strange sort of smile and led him to the lakeside, where they sat on a bench facing the sun. Discomfited by her quiet, Ciel began combing his mind for things girls liked to talk about, but found his thoughts drifting towards Astor Durless and the complications of the night before.

_Stop thinking about it,_ he scolded himself, and tried to conjure all he knew about the French variations of lace.

"About the wedding," said Elizabeth. "About what you said earlier...do you really not mind it? Being so sudden, I mean? It was—it was Father's suggestion, you know." She bit her lip. "When I first heard it, I was so taken aback that I agreed right away. And I…I didn't really take your feelings on the matter into account, did I?"

"Lizzie," said Ciel. The confession set off a guilt that wrenched his stomach and guided a gentle hand to her cheek. "It's all right. I'm not angry with you."

"You're not?"

"No," he closed his eyes. "I can never manage to stay angry with you, and you know it. I'm just—intrigued by the Lord's decision, I suppose."

"Oh. I see." She pulled out a handkerchief and dabbed her eyes. "I'm happy you aren't angry, Ciel. It means very much to me."

At that, Ciel nodded, and tried not to fidget as he segued into the real purpose behind his visit. "It does to me, too," he said. "That's why I am merely curious why your father made such a choice."

"He hasn't mentioned why, really," frowned Elizabeth, "but knowing my father, it must have something to do with his business. Whatever that might be."

"Ah." Ciel raised his brows. So Elizabeth _could _think that way. Perhaps…yes, perhaps it would be worth asking, if he phrased it well. He let a companionable silence wash over the topic before piping up once more.

"Elizabeth," he said, "have you, by any chance, heard from a cousin, the Duke of Durless? I...hear it is his birthday soon."

"Duke…Durless?" Elizabeth furrowed her brows. "Have I such a cousin?"

"You've never heard from him?"

"I don't think so," said Elizabeth. "I don't think I've met such a person at any of the parties I've been to, either. At any rate," she paused, "…I didn't know we were relatives with the Durlesses—I mean, you are, but I'm not…not immediately, at least. If I am, no one has told me about it."

"Really?" This came a surprise. "Your father's never mentioned it?"

"He hasn't."

"Hm." So even the upright Middlefords had skeletons in their closets. And by the looks of things, they hid them quite well.

_This certainly puts a whole new twist on things, _thought Ciel. _They must have had a reason for keeping it secret._ _I must uncover it._

"Your father had an older sister, did he not?" Ciel looked over the water. The genealogy, if anything, would hold some clues.

"Did he?" blinked Elizabeth. "I've never heard anything like it!"

"…You haven't?"

"No! If it is true, they mustn't be on terribly good terms. But I don't remember seeing such person on the family tree, either, and you know how meticulous Father is about things like that. Perhaps she was disowned?" Elizabeth scrunched her face. "For not marrying well?"

Meanwhile, Ciel was busy processing the significance of one piece of information: that Phillipa Middleford was not on the genealogy_. _Whatever the reason behind her exclusion, a man like the Marquess would not have bothered maintaining good terms with her while she was alive. By extrapolation, he could take it to mean that Astor Durless and the Marquess were not on good terms, either.

And even the Marquess was not foolish enough to maneuver himself right between two unfriendly parties.

If he dared to…no, he was certain. The supposed conflict between the wedding date and his decision to expand Funtom was pure coincidence, and not some product of the Marquess's foresight. The Marquess's scheme had never taken a _possible plan_ to increase his exports into account. He almost snorted. It was nice to have his belief in the mediocrity of the man's intelligence reaffirmed.

_And because they are not on good terms, _thought Ciel, _we are on even ground._

_No_.

_I have the upper hand. He knows nothing of my plans._

_And if I play my cards right, I can trap him in his own little web. _

"Actually," he interrupted Elizabeth's speculations, which were growing wilder by the second, "your aunt did marry well…she married one of the Durlesses. A bit farther related from Aunt Angelina and my mother, but a Durless all the same. She had a son, Astor, who is two years older than us, I think. He inherited the title."

Elizabeth raised her brows. "If that is true," she said slowly, "then it seems strange I haven't heard of him. I wonder why I haven't. This cousin of ours mustn't be very active in the social scene."

"No, I don't suppose he is," nodded Ciel. "It's such a shame. I'd like to get to know him better, myself…he is the last surviving Durless, after all. He's the last connection I have to my mother." Then, lowering his eyes in a way he knew would evoke pity, Ciel propped his face against a hand, and heaved his shoulders.

"Oh, Ciel," said Elizabeth, placing a gentle hand over his own. "I'd like to get to know him better, too. I can't believe such a thing was hidden from me! I, the keeper of England's gossips!" She cried indignantly, and then flushed when she realized what she had confessed to. "Uh…never mind that. In any case," she hastened, "I am planning one last party before we announce the wedding date to the public. Why don't we invite him?"

_Aha! _thought Ciel. "That would be _perfect_," he said, and plastered on a soppy smile. "It would mean very much to me, Lizzie."

"All right, then," smiled Elizabeth. Then she paused. "But…we are not acquainted. And if my family and his are indeed on bad terms, then inviting him would seem a bit…out of the blue, wouldn't it?"

"Let me take care of that." Gripping his cane, Ciel pushed himself off the bench, and stretched. "I will send him a letter explaining everything. I trust you can take care of the invitation right away?"

"Of course!" beamed Elizabeth. Standing, she patted down her dress, and tugged him onto the path back to the manor.

_All right, _thought Ciel, as he ambled down the gravel. _In order to maintain the upper hand, I must control how Astor Durless perceives Leopold Middleford…I must make the fool look like someone no businessman worth his salt would ever think of working with. _

_I must make the better offer._

_In any case, _he thought, ignoring the tug on his elbow, _I must first ascertain the Duke's attitude toward the both of us. I can do that if he attends the party. And he should_ _attend, if I state my intentions clearly enough._

"Ciel," Elizabeth shook his arm, "there's a tree in front of you."

Blinking, he looked up, and found himself face to face with bark. "Sorry," he said. "I was lost in thought."

"I could see that," Elizabeth stifled a laugh. "Come on, the manor's that way."

"Of course."

_Anyway, _Ciel continued, disgruntled, _where was I…ah, yes. I will state my intentions. If he is the astute businessman the files claimed him to be, then he won't turn me down. I'll make him an offer he can't refuse._

_Then again, this all depends on what _kind _of person he is. That single element can change everything._

_But I'm willing to take the risk._

Crossing the threshold after Elizabeth, he let his lips curl. Perhaps this wedding would work to his advantage after all.

* * *

A/N: I was planning on writing a second half for this chapter, but decided to have two separate chapters instead. I think it works better that way.

Stay tuned and leave a comment!

Edit: Okay I corrected this really weird sentence error in this chapter. FFnet ate up two words, which created a really confusing run on sentence. I hate you FFnet.


	7. The man of steel

**Heritage**

vii. the man of steel

* * *

_Swish. Clang. Fwip._

Under the fiery furnace sky, man and metal melded into one. Astor's eyes were hard green sparks that exploded with each thrust into the sun. Years of pain and shadows and bare survival had forged his sword into a third limb that aided him when a good pair of arms were not enough.

Those days were gone, but their habits remained, for habits that saved his life were not easily forgotten. Raised in a warm household, he had been a fairly easygoing child, but that old attitude of his was a luxury as much as silver spoons and servants who attended to your every whim, as he came to realize. After all, when you are trying to survive in a dangerous, friendless world, childhood ceases being a priority.

Astor faced the sun and cut shadows so quickly into the light spilling across the grass that the wind bowed to his blade and followed it in short, sharp snaps. Amid the cacophony of battle-preparation, his ears easily picked up a wisp of human voice:

"Young master, a letter!"

"Coming, Lewis," said Astor, knowing his butler would not be able to hear him from afar. He wiped the sweaty hair off his forehead, slid his sword into its holster, and sprinted to the manor looming in the distance.

As he drew to a close, he yelled, "Throw it down, will you?"

"If you insist, sir," came the reply from the window.

The letter drifted three stories into his hand. Astor shook his head with impatience; Lewis needed to throw better. _Faster._ Looking for an addresser, he found none, and frowned, turning the blank envelope in his hand. The seal, though intriguing, was not one he had seen before.

"What is this...?" he muttered, raising a brow. "Toss me my knife, Lewis."

"That would be dangerous, sir."

"Don't be a ninny, Lewis," Astor rolled his eyes. "Forget it. I'll just use my sword."

"My apologies, sir."

Waving his servant away impatiently, Astor sliced open the blood-red seal in one clean stroke, and whipped out the curious missive.

"_Lord Durless,_" he read:

"_I am Earl Phantomhive, Head of Funtom Corporation."_

"The toy industry behemoth...?" muttered Astor, business instincts firing pellets of sweat from his forehead.

"_I introduce myself as a fellow man of commerce, who wishes to negotiate a mutually beneficial arrangement that will see the growth of our shares in our respective industries. _

_I plan to expand my popular product lines overseas, and wish to use your services to do so. In return, your company will receive exclusive rights to distribute my products for a specified period of time. _

_Regretfully, my schedule is already occupied by a variety of matters; the closest possible time I would be able to discuss details with you in person is in three days, at a social gathering at Whitford Manor, residence of the Middlefords. You will find the address enclosed on a separate card._

_If you find this arrangement unsatisfactory, please notify me immediately, and I will try to __find a different time._

_Regards,_

_Lord Phantomhive."_

Astor blinked, and read the letter a second, halting time.

_Middlefords?_

The sun bore down so heavily that it seemed to set him on fire. In the glare of his sword, his pale bond hair from a mother long gone was as blinding as light.

* * *

"_Lizzie:_

_Our cousin accepted. _

_I'll leave it to you to make this a party he won't forget._

_- Ciel."_

Elizabeth put down the letter and sighed at its brevity. Her cousin-no, fiancé-never proved comfortable with the rich, affectionate vocabulary she often fondly bestowed upon her missives to him. Still, he never berated her for indulging in this particular expression of affection, so she never stopped doing so, always holding onto the hope that he might one day return her warmth as he did so long ago.

"I should review the menu now," she said, and rose from her chaise longue, determined to live up to Ciel's quiet request for the most spectacular party she would ever throw - before her wedding, at least. Now _that_ would be an affair of epic proportions that London would _never_ forget.

She would make sure of it.

Turning the doorknob, she began calling for Paula, but ran straight into Leopold Middleford's portly chest.

"Ah!" she cried, and stumbled back, but righted herself quickly. "How may I help you, Father?"

"May I come in?" he said, with a glassy smile that Elizabeth tried to return without blinking.

"Oh, but I was just about to head out," she said, and pushed the door outward. "Was there something you wanted, Father?"

Leopold maneuvered himself over the threshold and took three slow steps in such a manner that she was forced to appear as if she was entering the room rather than exiting. A small spark of irritation tickled between her eyes.

"I was wondering about the wedding preparations," he said, never breaking his smile. "How are you progressing with them, Elizabeth?"

"Fine," she said, and hesitated. "I am preparing for another party now, actually. The last one before the wedding. Ciel...said he would come."

"Oh?" Leopold's eyes gleamed, catching bits of dust in the light. "Ciel? That is rather out of character for that _boy_." He stepped forward until he right before Elizabeth, staring down at her with a strange affection and hunger. "Has he mentioned anything..._special_ to you recently? About his...dealings? Any talk of...future plans? You are the closest to him, after all."

With a start, Elizabeth realized that no matter how cold Ciel was to her, he would never afford her the disrespect of seeing her merely as a _tool_ to achieve his ends.

She would not betray him. Not to this oily merchant standing before her.

"With all due respect, _Father_," she sniffed, "Ciel's plans have always been his own business. My business has been simply to carry out my social duties and stand by him as a _loyal_ fiancée and friend. Now, if you will _excuse _me," she turned with a sharp swish of her skirt, "I must be attending to the party plans. We wouldn't want to leave our guests _wanting, _would we?"

With that, Elizabeth strode away from the gaping man, catching for the first time an exhilarating glimpse of freedom.

* * *

_Click. Click. Click._ The shadows of trees flickered in the sunlight pooling across the floor of the carriage. Astor struggled to match his heart to the rhythmic clicking of the horses' hooves, but the strange twisting in his gut stopped him from doing so.

_Mother_, his heart whispered.

In the years he had been alive (sometimes barely so), he had never once heard from his mother's side of the family. Neither of his parents enjoyed bringing up the extended family, but he knew his relatives must have been of considerable upbringing, for the title and lands he possessed could not have been obtained through the recent tidings of British commerce. His parents were aristocrats, and held themselves as such, even as they harnessed more practical talents in commerce and combat. It was a bit ironic that the layman practice of business should lead him to rediscover his noble heritage, he thought.

Now, finally, came time to face his past. A past that seemed bigger than he could come to terms with.

"Young master, for the fifth time, we are _not_ turning the carriage around," said Lewis sternly as he caught the look on Astor's face. "It would be terribly impolite to your hosts, and would hardly help your plans for Funtom."

"...I just...I don't know how to face them," sighed Astor. He could probably jump out of the window if he wanted to, but Lewis would make him pay for it later, so he settled for tapping his feet at gunfire's pace to calm his nerves.

Lewis's lines softened. "Face them as you would face anyone, my lord," he said. "Simply remember to do your parents proud."

They sat in silence until the carriage screeched to a halt in front of a grand set of black wooden doors. Lewis nodded goodbye and left for the servants' entrance. Letting his legs lead his reluctant heart, Astor found himself in an elegant marble lobby filled with the frivolous chatter of guests wandering the halls of the manor. It was a great deal more people than he was used to seeing at once, and he was unpleasantly reminded of why he always turned down social calls.

"This way, sir," a servant bowed. He followed the man with pursed lips, ignoring the curious stares directed his way and wishing more than ever that Lewis was by his side.

Suddenly, a familiar glint of gold caught his eye. His heart halted with his footsteps.

It was a girl, with blonde hair so sheer it seemed like she wore a halo of liquid gold that glinted in the sunlight filtering in from the tall windows. Astor could not move. He watched her draw the others to her like moths to the purest blue flame, capturing them with her wispy movements, her tinkling laughter, her wide, easy smile.

He had never seen anything like her in his life.

"Sir? Sir?"

And suddenly, she saw him too.

Their eyes met. Her voice halted. Three seconds of eternity they shared, before she broke the trance and floated to him with a smile, waving an easy goodbye to the ones around her. He found himself unsure of where to look, and stumbled a little as he tried to recompose himself.

"You must be Lord Durless," she said. "I'm Elizabeth Middleford, daughter of the Marquess, and the hostess of today's party. It's not much, but I make sure everyone has a good time," she laughed, and took his arm easily, causing his heart to lurch again. "I've never seen you around before, you know; you simply _must _introduce yourself over a cup of tea sometime! It's wonderful to get to know all these different people, because you never know when you might need a friend's help." Here, she winked at him. "I'll help you get to know everyone, if you want. See, that old man over there?" She pointed. "He's got the most beautifully kept gardens. He does the gardening himself; says it calms him. They're absolutely _perfect_ for summer garden parties, so I always make sure to call on him. And that one over there, Lady Margaret, she keeps a _gorgeous_ stable of horses. I like to call on her to ride sometimes; her grounds are large, so we always have a riot racing to the borders. And-oh, I'm sorry, you're probably looking for Ciel, aren't you?" She winced, smiling apologetically. "Sorry, I do so often get carried away. Ciel doesn't like it much, but that's me, I suppose. Oh, there he is. Go on!"

"Hm?" said Astor, dazed. This girl-Elizabeth, was it?-hypnotized him. He could hardly follow her from one dizzying train of thought to another, and simply sat back, so to speak, letting himself be dragged into her unfamiliar world of social calls, gardens, and lilting laughter.

Shaking himself from his reverie, he found that he could not do anything but nod, and turn back every few seconds to catch a glimpse of her as he meandered towards the short, surly looking youth in the corner.

As he tapped on Phantomhive's shoulder, he did not notice a pair of yellow eyes watching the two of them like a crow.

"Well, well," murmured the eyes in the shadows, "it has finally begun."

* * *

_To be continued._

Well, after 2 years...I finally found the strength to write again!

Please leave a review and stay tuned! Things are about to get much, much messier... :)


	8. Everything that rises must converge

**Heritage**

viii. everything that rises must converge

* * *

Sebastian wrinkled his nose.

He tasted the miasma as soon as he crossed the entryway. It reeked of a familiar, damp rot, and pervaded the air in a way that no man blindfolded would have been able to discern the manor from an open sewer.

None of the humans noticed. Sebastian reasoned snidely that their olfactory nerves were already deadened by the cloying odors they doused themselves in every morning. Even _Hell_ smelled better. Which brought him to the point. The real reason the ladies and gentlemen were leisurely savoring their canapés, rather than climbing over each other to escape the stench, was that only those who had been to Hell would recognize the smell.

This would be all well and good if Whitford Manor was Hell. As it were, Whitford Manor was _not_ Hell, though the Young Master might contest that assertion. Sebastian scanned the room again—he slid above the chandelier for a better vantage point—but found no possible source of the stench. It simply ghosted over the room like a shadow.

Sebastian frowned. The miasma itself posed no threat to the Young Master, but its source...might. At any rate, the Brat would throw all manners of tantrum if this important negotiation was interrupted. He slid to a dark corner and eyed the air, wondering not for the first time if an old friend had decided to pay him a visit.

* * *

Ciel counted the steps clicking his way. He had observed the young duke step into the room with the thin lips and furrowed brows of one unused to the gaieties of high society. Rather than accosting Durless directly, however, he chose to plant himself by the window, where he would have time to tailor his demeanor to this unfamiliar man.

"Lord Phantomhive, I take it?"

Ciel molded his lips into a warm smile and turned. "Lord Durless! So glad to finally be of your acquaintance." They exchanged a firm, cautious handshake, and he gestured to a passing servant. "Some canapés?"

"Oh, no," Durless shook his head. "I keep to a very regimented diet."

"I see. Well, shall we...?"

"Ah, yes, of course."

Peering over his shoulder for signs of the Marquess, Ciel led Durless into a smaller room devoid of company. The two settled in chairs opposing each other and opened their mouths at the same time, closed them, opened them, and closed them again, in an awkward choreography where neither knew who was leading.

"Ahem," Ciel coughed. He felt somewhat vindicated by Durless's embarrassed frown. "Well. Well! This is a pleasant time of the year for business, isn't it, Lord Durless?"

Durless, thankfully, had enough social and business acumen to pick up the cue. "Indeed," he straightened. "It heartened me greatly to hear from you, Lord Phantomhive. Your proposition interests me very much. I, too, believe a mutually beneficial arrangement can be made."

"Excellent!" Ciel steepled his fingers. "Your company would receive exclusive rights to distributing my products overseas, as I mentioned. We will iron out the smaller details later, but I assume your company has expertise in determining which markets we should enter and the best way we should do so?"

"Yes, of course," Durless nodded vigorously. "We have specialists for that. When the agreements have been drawn up and signed, I will have them process the relevant data and help chart the best course we should follow. Do you have any regions in mind?"

"Well," Ciel paused. "I would like to expand throughout Northern Europe, and across the Atlantic. But I leave the specifics to your experts. I should like to discuss the details with you after my options are clear."

"Yes, yes, that can be arranged."

"Good. And the costs?"

"That would depend on where you decide on expanding to, of course, among other things. I can give you the specifics at a later date, but I will mail a rough calculation to you first, if you so desire."

"That would be excellent, thank you."

"All right."

"Good."

They settled back into a more satisfied silence. Now that the inital phase of negotiations was settled, Ciel focused his attention on Durless the man. His—partner? cousin?—bore a certain Middleford air, with his wispy golden hair and firm, athletic frame. A glint to his right revealed a sword swathed in black, and if his genealogy was any indication, it was not there for adornment. Ciel stifled a snort. The Middleford line was known for producing masters of the blade who were more often— eccentric—than not. Just what the world needed, he thought: another swashbuckling, sword-waving, walking hazard to society.

Durless, however, met his gaze stably, if a bit uncomfortably. It was evident that he was out of his element, though less so than when they were in the company of the larger group. His face might have remained stoic, but his crossed arms and fidgeting knees betrayed his discomfort. Taking pity on the man who might have been the only nobleman less keen on the farce of high society than himself, Ciel stood.

"Well, let's join the party outside for now, shall we?" he said.

Durless grunted, stood, and let him lead the way. As they slipped out the room, he spoke again.

"This manor..."

"Hm?" Ciel peered behind.

"You mentioned it belonged to the Middlefords?"

_Ah._ Ciel stopped. "Yes, Whitford Manor is the residence of the Middlefords. I believe you were earlier conversing with the daughter, Lady Elizabeth Middleford?" He gestured towards the female, who was entertaining guests some steps away.

Durless looked stricken. Ciel watched him closely.

"My—mother. She was a Middleford." He uttered.

Ciel looked at his hair and his sword and clamped down the temptation to say, _No, of course. _He resorted to an, "Ah, yes. Indeed." Then, "What of it?"

"Oh!" Durless shook his head and straightened. "Nothing. Nothing at all. Nothing to be made of it. She...rarely mentioned her family. That's all. Private woman." His eyes took in the room with a new wonder.

Ciel had little patience for reminiscing, but decorum forced a smile on his face. He was about to renew his pace when a familiar bluster invaded his ears:

"Ciel! Young Phantomhive!"

Freezing in a grimace, Ciel gripped his cane, and willed distance to magically separate him and Durless. No such luck.

"Why, I see you are finally _socializing_! With _people_!" The Marquess boomed as he sauntered over. "That is certainly an improvement. Constant solitude does not become a young man like you. Why, something of merriment is lost—and something of pleasure, too."

"The only thing lost is your head," Ciel muttered under his breath.

Leopold ignored his remark. Swiveling towards Durless, he raised his eyebrows dramatically, taking in the vision of someone who might well be a spectre of some long dead relative. "And who might _this_ be...?"

"Astor Durless," Durless said, taking an imperceptible step back. "Duke of Durless."

"Oh?" Leopold's eyes glinted. "I don't believe we have met. I am Leopold, the Marquess Middleford. Welcome to my humble abode!" He swept an arm lengthwise and let loose a hearty laugh.

"It is very beautiful," Durless remarked.

Taking Durless by the shoulder, Leopold cut off Ciel's cry of protest, and steered him away from Ciel. "I presume my daughter Elizabeth invited you here today. Are you a friend?"

"Oh, no, not at all," Durless shook his head, eyebrows raised in alarm. "I am here on business."

"Business?" Leopold parroted, his teeth showing. "What's this?"

_No!_ Ciel groaned. Mentally, he gave Durless the evil eye.

"Just _small_ business, Leopold," Ciel cut in, slamming his cane between the two men and wedging himself in. "Now, if you'll excuse us, we'll be on our way. Lord Durless?"

"Ah—"

"Now, now, what's this?" Leopold countered. "Surely a moment or two could be spared? Lord Durless and I were just getting to know each other, after all!" He deftly maneuvered past Ciel's cane to Durless's other side and rewound an arm around his target's shoulder. "I happened to notice your sword. Exquisite piece of craftsmanship. There is something very _curious _about it, though, I must say," he said, resting a finger on the crest embedded in the hilt. Durless's fingers flinched. "This sword...where did you come by it? If I may be so bold as to ask." He smiled with narrow eyes.

Ciel's breath caught. Yes—perhaps—this was the moment that would make or break—

A silence. Leopold's hand came to rest comfortably over the hilt.

"...It belonged to my mother," Durless said. He clamped his hand over Leopold's and met the older man's gaze with eyes of steel. "I inherited it when she passed."

"Your mother?" Leopold's brows furrowed. "Oh, I'm terribly sorry, of course. Might I inquire into her name?"

Ciel watched a thousand shadows flicker across Durless's hard eyes.

"Phillipa. Phillipa Middleford."

This pronouncement provoked no spark of recognition from the Marquess. Instead, he pursed his lips, then brightened. "Ah, a more distant relation, I presume!"

"She didn't mention her family much."

"Well, who's to stop me from calling you my _dear_ cousin?" Leopold beamed, casting a narrow eye towards Ciel. He released his hand from the hilt and Durless's grip, and wiped it on his pants. "You _must _tell me more about this matter. But now, shall we join my daughter for a small gathering? It's not so often that you _reunite_ with long lost _family_!"

A blink of hesitation crossed Durless's face, but something in him seemed to heed the beckoning of blood. "Why, yes, if you insist," he relented. "It has been quite some time since I have—been in such company."

If the remark was cryptic, Leopold did not linger on it, but energetically steered Durless towards the room which earlier they had emerged from. Ciel pursed his lips. That Durless's feelings towards Leopold were in a position to run very hot or cold put him in a precarious position, but that the Marquess did not recognize the name of his own _sister_—

"Sebastian!" he muttered under his breath, as he tailed behind the pair.

No answer came.

* * *

_To be continued_


	9. Close kin

**Heritage**

ix. close kin

* * *

Under the sleeve that swathed his other arm, Astor's fingers dug into his sword. The portly elder gentleman anchored upon his shoulder had a grip as strong as death. He felt for the first time a strange net form over him, threatening to cut into his mind, but shook off the thought. There was a time when he would have run into a cage to escape the perils of freedom.

"Now, why don't we get settled here," beamed the Marquess, nudging him into a chair. "Ciel, call for Elizabeth, won't you? Tell her there is someone very _important_ I would like her to meet. And fetch—ah, tell _her_ to fetch some tea and cakes."

Phantomhive sneered. The Marquess smiled. Astor leaned into his chair to avoid the line of fire. At the present his hosts stood opposite each other, ramrod straight, flag bearers of two nations at war.

"You!" Ciel barked at a servant passing by. "Get Elizabeth here immediately. And prepare some tea and cakes. _Immediately._"

"Y-Yes, my Lord! At once!"

For the first time since Astor encountered the man, the Marquess cracked a glare behind his mask of decorum. "That was _my _servant, Ciel," he frowned. "I demand that you treat what is mine with more _respect_ than you treat that dog of yours."

"If the master himself is unworthy of respect, how much less so is his servants?"

"How dare you! At least I didn't pick mine off the _streets—_"

"Father! Ciel!" A rustle of fabric and gold cut them off. "Not in front of the guests!"

All three men whipped their heads around. Elizabeth Middleford stood at the doorway, hands on her waist. She cut an oddly stern figure, and Astor blinked as a vision of his mother flashed before his eyes.

"You called for me, Ciel?" said Elizabeth. Her eyes landed on Astor and brightened, but he found he could not hold her green gaze, and forced a look at the men instead. They seemed to soften a little in her presence. Somewhere beyond his understanding, a ceasefire had been negotiated.

"Elizabeth!" said the Marquess, beckoning her to approach. "Have you been acquainted with our cousin, the Duke Durless?"

"Briefly," she smiled, gliding over. Astor remembered his manners and shot up. Stiffly, he took her hand, bowed and pressed his lips to her slender, gloved fingers. It had been a long time since he had paid such a gesture. When he looked up, she caught him in her warm gaze, and he found himself lost before awakening with a jolt and dropping her hand as if it were a lump of diseased flesh.

Phantomhive was eyeing him, but the Marquess paid no heed to his awkward bearing, and ushered them into the seats. A servant poured them tea in gilt-edged red cups and served them little cakes decorated with fruits and cream. Astor marveled, once again, at the indulgence of this household. As a child, Mother had warned him against the impropriety of excess, and rarely spoiled him with new toys or sweet treats. Tea at home was always plain and bare—never this bone-china'ed, delicate-pastry'ed affair.

But the old home was no more. He was sitting in the residence of Mother's family, whom he had never tried to contact in the past, nor vice versa. It seemed rather strange to him that a woman of Mother's values should have been raised in a household where such extravagant habits were commonplace. Then again, he did not know how closely she was related to the portly man and fair young woman who presently sat across from him. She died before she could speak of it. The more he sat with these strangers, the more he wondered about her secrets.

"So, my dear cousin," said the Marquess, after he had taken a fair draught of tea, "what special business brings you to this residence today?"

"Business with Lord Phantomhive, sir," said Astor. A cast of his eye at Phantomhive indicated that revealing details would anger his powerful new partner—not the smartest business strategy. "I am afraid I am not at liberty to divulge more. These are strictly confidential matters, you understand."

"Of course, of course," murmured the Marquess, glancing back and forth between him and Phantomhive, as if the answer he sought could be read in the air. Astor began to understand why Phantomhive seemed so hostile to the Marquess when he had first appeared and latched onto his shoulder.

"Lord Durless," piped Elizabeth, "have you known for a very long time that you were a cousin of ours?"

"In a manner of speaking," he said, lowering his gaze to his teacup. "I knew my mother, Phillipa, was a Middleford. But she hardly ever spoke about the matter, and I never pursued it."

"But surely_ we_ would have known," frowned Elizabeth. "Surely we would have heard of it! The Middleford line is not so thinly spread that cousins would slip from our notice. Ciel here is a cousin, too, on my mother's side."

Astor raised his eyebrows at Phantomhive, who met his gaze coolly.

"That is true, though," said the Marquess. "Forgive me—Phillipa, was it? Yes, I don't believe I have ever come across that name—not on the most recent lines of the genealogy. How strange. Yet it is undeniable you are one of _us—_why, look at you. You could pass off as one of my own, my boy!" At that, he released a booming laugh. Astor did not laugh with him.

"Your mother," interrupted Elizabeth. "May—may we meet with her?"

Astor sat very still.

"Elizabeth!" The Marquess cried, nearly spilling his cake. He tried to right himself. "My most heartfelt apologies, dear cousin. My daughter—you must forgive her—she didn't know—"

"Know what?" asked Elizabeth. She turned her wide eyes to Astor, a hand to her mouth. "Is everything all right, Lord Durless?"

"She is dead," said Astor.

Elizabeth gasped. "Oh, how terrible of me to ask such a thing!" She whispered, covering her lips with her fingers. "I'm so—I'm so dreadfully sorry."

"Yes, she is," cried the Marquess. He made towards Astor, but Astor shuddered so violently that he halted mid-lunge.

A silence descended upon the room. Its staleness made Astor think of cemeteries.

_Perhaps some things should remain untouched,_ he thought. He wanted to leave.

"It's time for me to leave," said Phantomhive, startling everyone. Abruptly, he stood, and offered Astor a hand. "Pleasure doing business with you today, Lord Durless. Shall we head out?"

"Yes, of course," said Astor. He stood, put the tea and cake down, shook the proffered hand, and headed for the doorway as fast as decorum would allow. Pausing, he turned back, and said:

"Good day, and thank you for your hospitality."

Then he was on his way.

He was not the only one. Without Elizabeth to entertain them, the lords and ladies had grown bored and restless, and were beginning to file out in chatty pairs, perhaps to make another round of social calls. Astor wove through the thin gaps in the crowd. Lewis was already waiting before the main door.

"I had a feeling you would be one of the first to leave," Lewis remarked dryly, as they stepped away from the manor.

"I don't want to hear another word of it," muttered Astor. "Where's the carriage?"

"It's—"

"My eyes! Can it really be Astor Durless?"

Astor swivelled his head, while Lewis straightened beside him, resuming a deferential air of servitude.

"Yes?" He said.

"I thought I recognized you," said a bald man a few steps behind. He was built like a wispy willow, with deep lines carved in his sharp, gaunt face. "You really do take after your mother. Your father's eyes, though—there is that. Yes, they were a fine pair. A shame what happened to them." His eyes grew dark. "A shame, indeed."

"You knew my parents?" said Astor, wary. His fingers found his sword. "Who are you?"

The bald man bowed. "A baron, my lord, but you may call Cecil. My lands are not far." He pointed to the thicket that bordered the estate. "They lie beyond the woods."

"That's...nice. I must be on my way now," said Astor, pivoting on his heel. He had enough of the past for a day. "Good day, Baron Cecil."

"You would willingly join hands with those responsible for their deaths?"

Astor froze.

"What did you say?" he said.

"Phantomhive," said the Baron, taking three steps forward. "You would _stand_ to be in the same room as him, despite the guilt**—" **_the blood _"—his name bears on their souls?"

Lewis stifled a gasp. Astor turned very slowly. "I know the—faces—of the perpetrators," he uttered, memory pulling the words from his reluctant lips. _Red._ "They—It was _not_ Phantomhive."

_ It was not human._

"Can you be sure of that?" said the Baron. Astor looked in his curving eyes and discovered a strange, sharp glint of yellow. "You might find, my dear boy, that appearances can be deceiving."

"You are speaking of things I wish to forget, and you are speaking in lies," snapped Astor. Too many people had worn his patience thin today. "Now, let me be on my way. I have no time for your inane speeches. Lewis, we're leaving."

"Right away, sir."

They took off, not once looking back.

Baron Cecil watched the horses neigh and pull the carriage into the distance. He reached into his coat and retrieved an unopened letter. The waxy seal that bore the Queen's crest shone like blood.

"Some things must not stay forgotten, young Durless," he muttered, eyes gleaming in the setting sun.

* * *

_To be Continued_

I would love to hear what you think about my story so far, my dear reader. Please leave a review and tell me what you think!_  
_


	10. Closer kin

**Heritage**

x. closer kin

* * *

Back to a pillar, fingers clasped over his cane, Ciel swept his eye across the ballroom. There was no sign of his butler in the thin, forking streams of guests trickling out the door.

"Honestly..." he groused. "_Where_ could he be?"

He glared at a clumsy servant scurrying by, but pressed barbed words back in his tongue; those he would save for the demon. Perhaps for Leopold Middleford, too, had the man not already so spectacularly shot himself in the foot. At the moment, he was spitting in Elizabeth's face the cost of her careless words.

That same slip of tongue had tipped the scales of their relationship in Ciel's favor. Still, he hardly wanted Elizabeth to suffer for his profit. _I will make it up to her later,_ he thought, not for the first time in the course of their relationship.

The whip of a door and the loud stomping up the stairs told him that the Marquess had wrapped up his tirade. Sebastian was still missing. A seed of worry germinated—had something happened? _What_ on earth could be holding him up? Ciel brushed a finger over his eyepatch and willed for an answer that never arrived.

"Ciel! You're still here."

His hand flew from his eye as fast as fire. Pushing off the pillar, he tipped his head to his cousin. "Yes. I'm sorry you were caught up in all of that, Lizzie," he sighed. "My work should have remained a matter between me and the Duke."

"No, Ciel, it was my fault," said Elizabeth. She clutched the folds of her dress and bit her lip. "Now I've gone and upset Father. I must set things right with our cousin—oh, I must have upset him as well! To ask such a question—and I've upset you, haven't I, Ciel? Tell me I haven't done anything to jeopardize Lord Durless's goodwill towards you!"

Alarmed by the sudden leak of her eyes, Ciel patted around his jacket for a handkerchief, and pressed it into her hands.

"Of course not, Lizzie," he offered her a smile. _If anything, he will be more endeared to me._ "Let me take care of things with Lord Durless. I'm sure everything will turn out just fine. Besides," he leaned in, "you have a wedding to plan, yes? Focus only on that. Everything else will be taken care of. Don't listen to your father."

Elizabeth dabbed her eyes and gave a mute nod. He made to turn from her, but she caught him by the wrist.

"Wait," she said. "I almost forgot, amidst all—that. Ciel, you told me the other day that Lord Durless's mother is Father's sister. But _how_ is it that...well, that _you_ know? What I mean to say is," here she paused, and worried the handkerchief between her fingers, "are you _sure?_ How can it be, then, that neither Father nor Lord Durless seem to know of this, but you do?"

_How, indeed. _This was the fine print he had not the eye to pick out. It was for these grain-like leaps in imagination that he relied most on his butler, who at the moment refused to come out of the woodwork and _answer his call. _

"That is something I must investigate further myself," he muttered. "But first. I must get back to my work. Elizabeth, will you do me a...favor?"

"Anything, of course," Elizabeth looked up, eyes wide. "But what is it that you need _my_ help with?"

"Your family archives. There must be..." he began pacing, thoughts flying with his feet. "If Phillippa Middleford indeed _was_ Leopold's sister, then there must be some kind of indicator that this was...once the case." _Recent history. Memories. Portraits. Things of the sort. Or perhaps...the _lack_ of these things._ "Do _not_ make it known to your father that I have asked this of you, but could you—look around a bit? In the archives? And of course, for now, keep the knowledge that Phillippa Middleford is his sister from his ears."

_This is a weapon I will not allow him to wield._

Elizabeth bit her lip, but Ciel struck her with such a cold, burning gaze that she was reminded of his duties and her own.

"I will be discreet," she said. Drawing back, she paused, and wrapped her hands about Ciel's. "But you must be careful, too."

Ciel said nothing. With a familiar sigh, she straightened, and left for the stairs. Watching her shadow recede, Ciel wondered tiredly if there was a world where Lizzie could have remained a carefree girl. He shook his head. The doors to the past had long burnt to ash.

Surveying the bare hall, he let his impatience come to a boil and tug his feet towards the servants' quarters. Now was time to take matters into his own hands.

* * *

"Your human is quite the impatient one, isn't he?"

Eyes shut, Sebastian searched the air. A ripple to his right. He flattened himself on the tabletop and heard the cool, sharp swipe of metal where his head had been a second ago. Spying an opening, he clapped his hands overhead and caught the heavy rod before it could bear down on his body. He swung himself upright and aimed a kick at the attacker, who thwarted it with a duck. Now they each bore their weight on the rod, never once yielding to the other.

"Stop—this—now," growled Sebastian as he pushed. "You may have—your duties, but I have—mine—too. The Young Master has been calling for me. Please—do _not_ interrupt my passage—any longer."

William T. Spears removed a trembling hand from the rod to push his glasses up his nose. "I will—cease to do so—when _you _cease to interrupt _my_ work, demon," he hissed. "If—I—have—to—do—_overtime_—_again_, I _will_ see the end of you—and your kind. Now, explain yourself. What on _earth_ have—you—done—this time?"

"What—have _I_ done?" Sebastian grunted. The Young Master was approaching like a thunderstorm. "Nothing that would be of—interest—to you!"

With a heave, he slammed a foot against the cliff of the table, causing them both to topple onto the dusty stone floor as the table flipped in midair and shattered against the wall behind him. He shot up, ready to end the skirmish, but found the sharp end of William's scythe grazing his neck. A step back would see him impaling himself on splintered wood.

"I really do detest you," muttered Sebastian, eyes crackling like hellfire.

"And I you," William pursed his lips. "Now, please explain this." He thrust a hand amid the sickly yellow air, recoiling as a ghoulish tendril crept up his arm.

"I am as much at a loss as you are," said Sebastian. He brushed away William's spear with a snap of his hand and patted the dust off his coat. "This is not my doing. You of all beings should be able to tell. But it certainly is—familiar."

"To your kind only," sniffed William. "This air is unholy." Reaching into his suit, he pulled out a notepad. "Nevertheless, I am here to investigate this anomaly, and you are the only demon in sight. Give me answers. Now."

"I told you, I—"

Like a thick duvet torn off a bed, the miasma lifted, and the air tasted once more of clean souls. William and Sebastian snapped apart.

"What on earth...?" muttered William.

"That wasn't me," said Sebastian.

William's eyes narrowed into needles as he jotted a memo. "Yet another in a string of unexplained incidents," he muttered, jabbing his punctuation marks.

"Another?" Sebastian mulled over the implications. "Do you mean to say..."

"I have yet to uncover the culprit," said William, crossing his arms, "but I am very certain that this is the doing of your kind."

"Of course. But what happened?"

"Lost souls." William shut his eyes as a shadow came over them. "Stolen souls, to be precise. These kinds of souls would normally not be in my jurisdiction, but the nature of their disappearances...the Committee deemed it prudent to dispatch someone with experience."

"Not in your jurisdiction, you say," murmured Sebastian. A morning headline flashed by his mind. "It can only be animal souls, then." The memory of their coarse flavor dredged up a grimace.

"Feline souls." William's eyes glimmered.

"_What—_"

The door burst open.

"SEBASTIAN!" roared Ciel, eyepatch crumpled in his hands, chest heaving with thunder. "What on _earth _have y—" here he paused, took in the dust and splintered wood, and spun to William. "You! What are _you_ doing here?"

"Took you a while, didn't it," muttered William.

"Yes, well," Ciel ground out, "the party only just ended, didn't it? And you, Sebastian! I have been _calling_ for you_. _Why didn't you—"

"Just wait a minute," William narrowed his eyes. "People have left this building?"

"Yes?" snapped Ciel. "The party did just end, after all. Why is that important?"

Scribbling in his notepad at gunfire's pace, William began a pace to match. "The miasma vanished very recently, too, probably around that same time...and if I remember, let me check..." he flipped a few pages, "yes, yes, it appeared around the time the people started coming in..."

"An unlikely coincidence," Sebastian cut in. His brows drew together in thought.

_A party guest..._

William and Sebastian looked at each other.

"Will you explain to me just what is going on here—" Ciel marched up to Sebastian to jab a finger in his chest, "—and what _he_ is doing here?" His finger snapped to William.

"He is on business, Young Master," bowed Sebastian. "There appears to have been...a local disturbance, lately. Souls have been taken where, ah, they should not have been."

The irony pinched like a needle. Ciel wound his eyepatch tight in his fingers.

"Is this happening at Whitford Manor, then?" he frowned. The Marquess hardly struck him as a man who would dabble in the occult.

"No," said William, glancing at Sebastian, "but a—demonic disturbance brings me here. It arrived with the guests, and vanished with them. Most likely, it is linked to the soul disturbances of late."

"It would be prudent to check the guest list, then, and investigate from there," murmured Sebastian.

Ciel rubbed his forehead. Just one more thing to cap off his mountainous workload.

"I will obtain it from Elizabeth," he sighed. "Just—whatever this is, get it away from her. I don't want to see you anywhere near Whitford Manor again."

"Neither do I," clipped William.

"Well, what are you waiting for?" Ciel rolled his eyes. "_Death?_"

With a harrumph, William leapt onto the windowsill. "I will continue to investigate, in the meantime. Please retrieve the guest list as soon as possible. Adieu." His shadow fluttered into the wind.

"Ne revenez pas," muttered Ciel.

The marigold glow of sunset broke over the wood splinters strewn about the stone floor. Sebastian slid off his coat and rolled up his sleeves. It was time to clean up his mess.

Between the scraping and the sweeping and the tossing, Ciel broke in: "Is it another one of your kind, then?" He leaned into the doorframe, head bowed over crossed arms, looking into the depths of the floor.

"It is possible."

"Will it pose any danger?"

_To us?_

Sebastian brushed the scuff marks off the windowsill. Under the setting sun, his eyes shone like lava. "Not many are able to summon demons of my calibre, Young Master."

_Throb._ The unclothed eye shut.

"But if it were great enough to pose—a threat," murmured Ciel, "what will you do then?"

Sebastian tilted his head back to capture his eye. "The ties of sacrifice supersede all," he said, drawing his words out like blood. "That which is written—" _bled_ "—onto your soul can never be erased."

_My name._

Neither looked away. A sudden wind blew a curled leaf into the room. Their eyes found it together.

Sebastian tossed the last of the splinters out the window. "Come, my Lord," he said, "it is time to return home."

"Don't think I've forgotten your insubordination today."

"I dare not dream of it. An extra helping of dessert may be in order tonight."

"Hmph."

Pushing off the doorframe, Ciel began his trek back, but paused. "One more thing. Sebastian, I want you to thoroughly investigate Phillippa Middleford's background."

"Yes, my Lord."

His initial task finally accomplished, Ciel let his mind wander to a realm of caramels and éclairs and black forest cake. Sebastian shook his head. A long evening in the kitchen lay ahead. William's alarming remark about feline souls, however, remained lodged in his mind. His attention festered around it like an open wound.

_Now, where to keep my beautiful darlings safe..._

* * *

_To be continued_


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